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Madeline

With other poems and parables: By Thomas Gordon Hake
Hake, Thomas Gordon (1809-1895)

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MADELINE.
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THE WORLD'S EPITAPH.
 I. 
I. ON ART.
 II. 
II. ON MUSIC.
 III. 
III. ON POETRY.
 IV. 
IV. ON THE STORM OF LIFE.
 V. 
V. ON THE RAINBOW.
 VI. 
VI. ON THE SANCTUARY.
 VII. 
VII. ON NATURE.
 VIII. 
VIII. ON TIME.
 IX. 
IX. ON THE FUTURE.
 X. 
X. ON THE SOUL.
 XI. 
XI. ON THE SOUL.
 XII. 
XII. ON GLORY.
 XIII. 
XIII. ON PEACE.
 XIV. 
XIV. ON THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW.
 XV. 
XV. ON GENIUS.
 XVI. 
XVI. ON DEPARTING PEACE.
 XVII. 
XVII. ON NATURE.
 XVIII. 
XVIII. ON LIFE.
 XIX. 
XIX. ON HOPE.
 XX. 
XX. ON THOUGHT.
 XXI. 
XXI. ON THE SEASONS OF LIFE.
 XXII. 
XXII. ON PASSION.
 XXIII. 
XXIII. ON THE NUPTIALS.
 XXIV. 
XXIV. ON THE SIREN.
 XXV. 
XXV. ON THE IMAGE.
 XXVI. 
XXVI. ON THE INFANT AT THE BREAST.
 XXVII. 
XXVII. ON THE WIDOW.
 XXVIII. 
XXVIII. ON PITY.
 XXIX. 
XXIX. ON THE BEREAVED.
 XXX. 
XXX. ON EARLY DEATH.
 XXXI. 
XXXI. ON THE DESERTED.
 XXXII. 
XXXII. ON DISSIPATED YOUTH.
 XXXIII. 
XXXIII. ON CONSCIENCE.
 XXXIV. 
XXXIV. ON SLUMBER.
 XXXV. 
XXXV. ON THE PILLOW OF THE WRETCHED.
 XXXVI. 
XXXVI. ON A MOTHER.
 XXXVII. 
XXXVII. ON THE OUTCAST.
 XXXVIII. 
XXXVIII. ON CHARITY.
 XXXIX. 
XXXIX. ON THE SAINT.
 XL. 
XL. ON THE SISTER OF MERCY.
 XLI. 
XLI. ON THE STATESMAN.
 XLII. 
XLII. ON OLD AGE.
 XLIII. 
XLIII. ON PENITENCE.
 XLIV. 
XLIV. ON MADNESS.
 XLV. 
XLV. ON DESPAIR.
 XLVI. 
XLVI. ON THE STRUGGLE FOR IMMORTALITY.
 XLVII. 
XLVII. ON MAN.
 XLVIII. 
XLVIII. ON FATE.
 XLIX. 
XLIX. ON DESPOTISM.
 L. 
L. ON PRIDE.
 LI. 
LI. ON THE PRISONER.
 LII. 
LII. ON REMORSE.
 LIII. 
LIII. ON HYPOCRISY.
 LIV. 
LIV. ON THE MASK.
 LV. 
LV. ON SELF-RIGHTEOUSNESS.
 LVI. 
LVI. ON CUNNING.
 LVII. 
LVII. ON BELIEF.
 LVIII. 
LVIII. ON THE DEATH-BED OF THE WISE.
 LIX. 
LIX. ON THE PHILOSOPHER.
 LX. 
LX. ON DELIRIUM.
 LXI. 
LXI. ON THE CLOSE OF LIFE.
 LXII. 
LXII. ON THE CHURCHYARD.
 LXIII. 
LXIII. ON THE TOMBS.
 LXIV. 
LXIV. ON DEATH.
 LXV. 
LXV. ON THE RESURGAM.

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214

XXVI. ON THE INFANT AT THE BREAST.

Dot of humanity, thy rosy cheek
Tints with its flush the breast to which it clings;
Thy lips by industry a living seek,
And pick up drink at virtue's famous springs.
Nature the store provided for thy gain,
It else within the frothy well had soured;
Then still thy mother of her goods distrain,
By thee the font be looted and devoured.
It will convey no poison to thy mind,
It is thy booty won in honest strife;
No ratsbane with it shall a passage find,
Churn it between thy lips, it saves thy life.
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