IV. "Year after year my stock it grew; They throve, and we at home did thrive : This lusty Lamb of all my store Is all that is alive; And now I care not if we die, And perish all of poverty. V. "Six children, Sir! had I to feed; My pride was tamed, and in our grief They said I was a wealthy man; Do this: how can we give to you,' They cried, what to the poor is due?' VI. "I sold a sheep, as they have said, And bought my little children bread, And they were healthy with their food; - it never did me good. For me, A woful time it was for me, To see the end of all my gains, To see it melt like snow away, For me it was a wofu♦ day. VII. "Another still! and still another! They dwindled, dwindled, one by one; And I may say, that many a time VIII. "To wicked deeds I was inclined, I went my work about; And oft was moved to flee from home, And hide my head where wild beasts roam. IX. "Sir! 't was a precious flock to me, God cursed me in my sore distress; And every week, and every day, X. "They dwindled, Sir, sad sight to see! And then at last from three to two: I had but only one: And here it lies upon my arm, To-day I fetched it from the rock : 1798 XXIII. REPENTANCE. A PASTORAL BALLAD. THE fields which with covetous spirit we sold, Those beautiful fields, the delight of the day, Would have brought us more good than a burden of gold, Could we but have been as contented as they. When the troublesome Tempter beset us, said I, "Let him come, with his purse proudly grasped in his hand; But, Allan,- be true to me, Allan, we 'll die Before he shall go with an inch of the land!" There dwelt we, as happy as birds in their bowers, ours, And for us the brook murmured that ran by its side. But now we are strangers, go early or late; When I walk by the hedge on a bright summer's day, Or sit in the shade of my grandfather's tree, A stern face it puts on, as if ready to say, "What ails you, that you must come creeping to me!" With our pastures about us, we could not be sad We slighted them all,- and our birthright was lost. O ill-judging sire of an innocent son, Who must now be a wanderer! but peace to that strain ! Think of evening's repose when our labor was done, The Sabbath's return; and its leisure's soft chain! And in sickness, if night had been sparing of sleep, How cheerful, at sunrise, the hill where I stood, Looking down on the kine, and our treasure of sheep That besprinkled the field; 't was like youth in my blood! Now I cleave to the house, and am dull as a snail; And, oftentimes, hear the church-bell with a sigh, |