I wrote my artless verses without effort, toil, or aim— Would I were now as free from care-oh! would I were a child! Yet soon my youthful heart began to spurn a life like this; I deem'd the far-off glittering world a fairy land of bliss; I left my playmates to their sports. Bright dreams came o'er me then Of stirring scenes, of crowded halls, high dames, and gifted And, while men; my short and simple tasks with careless speed I conn❜d, I sigh'd to study learned lore my feeble power beyond : Like Rasselas, around me while the happy valley smiled, I long'd to quit its limits, and to cease to be a child. The magic circle of the world I now have stood within ; She still eludes my eager quest, still soars my grasp above; O foolish, O repining heart! thus wilfully to cast Should I not rather be content to pass from youth to age, Striving to do my Maker's work in life's short pilgrimage— Owning His mercies undeserved, His chastening lessons mild, As when a father kind and wise corrects an erring child? Lord! I recall my heedless wish!—still let me, day by day, Beneath Thy pure all-seeing eye, pursue my humble way; The steep and rugged hill of life with cheerful patience climb, Trusting to reach fair Zion's land at Thy appointed time! Or, if my hurried prayer in part Thou deignest to fulfil, Grant that with infant meekness I may ever wait Thy will; Aid me to school my rebel heart, to calm my fancies wild, And make me in submissive love indeed a little child. A WALK IN A CHURCHYARD. REV. R. C. TRENCH. WE walk'd within the churchyard bounds, My little boy and I— He laughing, running merry rounds, "Nay, child! it is not well," I said, 66 Among the graves to shout, To laugh and play among the dead, A moment to my side he clung, A moment still'd his joyous tongue, Then, quite forgetting the command, In life's exulting burst Of early glee, let go my hand, Joyous as at the first. And now I did not check him more, For, taught by Nature's face, I had grown wiser than before Even in that moment's space. She spread no funeral pall above As hung o'er all around; And white clouds o'er that spot would pass As freely as elsewhere; The sunshine on no other grass A richer hue might wear; And form'd from out that very mould The rook was wheeling overhead, Nor hasten'd to be gone; The small bird did its glad notes shed, And God, I said, would never give If our one wisdom were to mourn, |