To wicked deeds I was inclined, I went my work about, Bent oftentimes to flee from home, And hide my head where wild beasts roam. Sir! 'twas a precious flock to me, As dear as my own children be; For daily with my growing store God cursed me in my sore distress; And every week, and every day, My flock it seemed to melt away. They dwindled, Sir, sad sight to see! From ten to five, from five to three, A lamb, a wether, and a ewe; And then at last from three to two; And, of my fifty, yesterday I had but only one: And here it lies upon my arm, Alas! and I have none; To-day I fetched it from the rock; XXI. REPENTANCE. A PASTORAL BALLAD. THE fields which with covetous spirit we sold, When the troublesome Tempter beset us, said I, There dwelt we, as happy as birds in their bowers; Unfettered as bees that in gardens abide; We could do what we chose 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; Oh, ill-judging sire of an innocent son 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-'twas 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! XXII. THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET. WHERE art thou, my beloved Son, Seven years, alas! to have received To have despaired, and have believed, Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss! I catch at them, and then I miss ; |