Repentance. THE fields which with covetous spirit we sold Those beautiful fields, the delight of the dayWould 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, 66 “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, We could do what we chose with the land, it was ours; But now we are strangers, go early or late; And often, like one over-burdened with sin, With my hand on the latch of the half-opened gate, I look at the fields, but I cannot go in ! 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, Our comfort was near if we ever were crost; But the comfort, the blessings, and wealth that we had, We slighted them all, and our birthright was lost. Oh, 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 labour 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; 'twas 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, That follows the thought-We've no land in the vale, Save six feet of earth where our forefathers lie! To the Cuckoo. O BLITHE new-comer! I have heard, I hear thee, and rejoice! O cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, While I am lying on the grass, That seems to fill the whole air's space, Though babbling only, to the vale, Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou bringest unto me a tale Thrice welcome, darling of the spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird; but an invisible thing A voice, a mystery; The same whom in my school-boy days I listened to; that cry Which made me look a thousand ways, In bush, and tree, and sky. To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love Still longed for, never seen. 25 And I can listen to thee yet; Can lie upon the plain O blessed bird! the earth we pace An unsubstantial, faery place, That is fit home for thee! The Cottager to her Enfant. THE days are cold, the nights are long, Then hush again upon my breast, All merry things are now at rest, The kitten sleeps upon the hearth, The crickets long have ceased their mirth; There's nothing stirring in the house Nay, start not at that sparkling light, And wake when it is day. |