 | My Mind and its Thoughts, in Sketches, Fragments, and Essays |  |
133
LINES,
WRITTEN IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE TREMENDOUS GALE AND STORM WHICH PROVED SO GENERALLY DISASTROUS TO LIFE AND ITS POSSESSIONS, ON SEPTEMBER 23, 1815.
SIMPLE ADDRESS TO MY HOME.
Safe on the vale's protected breast,
The portals of my mansion rest.
In trembling tenderness of form,
Outlive the hard and hurrying storm—
While on the firm hill's cultured side,
Is crushed the seat of taste and pride.
The portals of my mansion rest.
In trembling tenderness of form,
Outlive the hard and hurrying storm—
While on the firm hill's cultured side,
Is crushed the seat of taste and pride.
To God the powerless poor belong,
He shields the weak, and smites the strong.
Without his will no sparrow falls,
Whose shelter was thy friendly walls.
My home—if quiet dwell with thee—
What are the storms of life to me!
So in the frail ark's tranquil view,
The whirlwinds of the deluge blew;
Hurtless they blew—of heaven the care,
The dove of peace still rested there—
Rested—while ruin's darts were hurled,
To strike the chosen of the world.
He shields the weak, and smites the strong.
Without his will no sparrow falls,
Whose shelter was thy friendly walls.
My home—if quiet dwell with thee—
What are the storms of life to me!
So in the frail ark's tranquil view,
The whirlwinds of the deluge blew;
Hurtless they blew—of heaven the care,
The dove of peace still rested there—
Rested—while ruin's darts were hurled,
To strike the chosen of the world.
As yet from earth no joy shall rise,
Without the atoning sacrifice—
No more thy bordering elms are seen
To fling their arch of darkening green—
And the ripe fruit tree's nectared store,
Shall wave its blooming gold no more.
Without the atoning sacrifice—
No more thy bordering elms are seen
To fling their arch of darkening green—
And the ripe fruit tree's nectared store,
Shall wave its blooming gold no more.
134
Though not a charm with polish'd grace
Smile on thy changed and cheerless face,
I love thee—that no passion rude,
Profanes thy sacred solitude:—
I love thee, that no envious eye,
Regards thee with a passing sigh!—
I love thee, for the friend sincere
Whose voice of blessing greets me here,
But most—that to thy haunts are given,
That calm, which looks from earth to heaven.
Smile on thy changed and cheerless face,
I love thee—that no passion rude,
Profanes thy sacred solitude:—
I love thee, that no envious eye,
Regards thee with a passing sigh!—
I love thee, for the friend sincere
Whose voice of blessing greets me here,
But most—that to thy haunts are given,
That calm, which looks from earth to heaven.
Not for the fair, the firm, the high,
Does pity come with pleading eye;
Thence are thy faded features dear
To me, as nature's vernal year—
And dear thy wasted form to me—
For all I love must change like thee.
Does pity come with pleading eye;
Thence are thy faded features dear
To me, as nature's vernal year—
And dear thy wasted form to me—
For all I love must change like thee.
| My Mind and its Thoughts, in Sketches, Fragments, and Essays | |