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180
The Cottage
The house my earthly parent left,
My heavenly Father e'er throws down;
For 'tis of air and sun bereft,
Nor stars its roof in beauty crown.
My heavenly Father e'er throws down;
For 'tis of air and sun bereft,
Nor stars its roof in beauty crown.
He gave it me, yet gave it not,
As one whose gifts are wise and good:
'Twas but a poor and clay-built cot,
And for a time the storms withstood;
As one whose gifts are wise and good:
'Twas but a poor and clay-built cot,
And for a time the storms withstood;
But lengthening years, and frequent rain,
O'ercame its strength, it tottered, fell;
And left me homeless here again,
And where to go I could not tell.
O'ercame its strength, it tottered, fell;
And left me homeless here again,
And where to go I could not tell.
But soon the light and open air,
Received me as a wandering child;
And I soon thought their house more fair,
And was from all my grief beguiled.
Received me as a wandering child;
And I soon thought their house more fair,
And was from all my grief beguiled.
Mine was the grove, the pleasant field,
Where dwelt the flowers I daily trod;
And there beside them too I kneeled,
And called their friend, my Father, God.
Where dwelt the flowers I daily trod;
And there beside them too I kneeled,
And called their friend, my Father, God.
Poem No. 513; summer 1839
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