XXIII. REPENTANCE. A PASTORAL BALLAD. THE fields which with covetous spirit we sold, Those beautiful fields, the delight of the day, Would 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, "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, Unfettered as bees that in gardens abide; We could do what we liked with the land, it was ours; And for us the brook murmured that ran by its side. But now we are strangers, go early or late; 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; had, We slighted them all, and our birthright was lost. O ill-judging sire of an innocent son, Who must now be a wanderer! but peace to that 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; 't was 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! XXIV. THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET 1804. I. WHERE art thou, my beloved Son, II. Seven years, alas! to have received To have despaired, have hoped, believed, I catch at them, and then I miss; III. He was among the prime in worth, Well born, well bred; I sent him forth If things ensued that wanted grace, IV. Ah! little doth the young one dream, V. Neglect me! no, I suffered long From that ill thought; and, being blind, VI. My Son, if thou be humbled, poor, And worldly grandeur I despise, VII. Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings, And blasts of heaven will aid their flight; They mount, how short a voyage brings The wanderers back to their delight! VIII. Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan, Or hast been summoned to the deep, IX. I look for ghosts; but none will force |