ANGEL HELP[5]

(1827)

This rare tablet doth include Poverty with Sanct.i.tude.

Past midnight this poor Maid hath spun, And yet the work is not half done, Which must supply from earning scant A feeble bed-rid parent's want.

Her sleep-charged eyes exemption ask, And Holy hands take up the task: Unseen the rock and spindle ply, And do her earthly drudgery.

Sleep, saintly poor one, sleep, sleep on; And, waking, find thy labours done.

Perchance she knows it by her dreams; Her eye hath caught the golden gleams, Angelic presence testifying, That round her every where are flying; Ostents from which she may presume, That much of Heaven is in the room.

Skirting her own bright hair they run, And to the sunny add more sun: Now on that aged face they fix, Streaming from the Crucifix; The flesh-clogg'd spirit disabusing, Death-disarming sleeps infusing, Prelibations, foretastes high, And equal thoughts to live or die.

Gardener bright from Eden's bower, Tend with care that lily flower; To its leaves and root infuse Heaven's sunshine, Heaven's dews.

'Tis a type, and 'tis a pledge, Of a crowning privilege.

Careful as that lily flower, This Maid must keep her precious dower Live a sainted Maid, or die Martyr to virginity.

[Footnote 5: Suggested by a drawing in the possession of Charles Aders, Esq., in which is represented the Legend of a poor female Saint; who, having spun past midnight, to maintain a bed-rid mother, has fallen asleep from fatigue, and Angels are finishing her work. In another part of the chamber, an Angel is tending a lily, the emblem of purity.]

THE CHRISTENING

(1829)

Array'd--a half-angelic sight-- In vests of pure Baptismal white, The Mother to the Font doth bring The little helpless nameless thing, With hushes soft and mild caressing, At once to get--a name and blessing.

Close by the Babe the Priest doth stand, The Cleansing Water at his hand, Which must a.s.soil the soul within From every stain of Adam's sin.

The Infant eyes the mystic scenes, Nor knows what all this wonder means; And now he smiles, as if to say "I am a Christian made this day;"

Now frighted clings to Nurse's hold, Shrinking from the water cold, Whose virtues, rightly understood, Are, as Bethesda's waters, good.

Strange words--The World, The Flesh, The Devil-- Poor Babe, what can it know of Evil?

But we must silently adore Mysterious truths, and not explore.

Enough for him, in after-times, When he shall read these artless rhymes, If, looking back upon this day, With quiet conscience, he can say "I have in part redeem'd the pledge Of my Baptismal privilege; And more and more will strive to flee All which my Sponsors kind did then renounce for me."

ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN

(1827)

I saw where in the shroud did lurk A curious frame of Nature's work.

A flow'ret crushed in the bud, A nameless piece of Babyhood, Was in a cradle-coffin lying; Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying; So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb For darker closets of the tomb!

She did but ope an eye, and put A clear beam forth, then strait up shut For the long dark: ne'er more to see Through gla.s.ses of mortality.

Riddle of destiny, who can show What thy short visit meant, or know What thy errand here below?

Shall we say, that Nature blind Check'd her hand, and changed her mind, Just when she had exactly wrought A finish'd pattern without fault?

Could she flag, or could she tire, Or lack'd she the Promethean fire (With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd) That should thy little limbs have quicken'd?

Limbs so firm, they seem'd to a.s.sure Life of health, and days mature: Woman's self in miniature!

Limbs so fair, they might supply (Themselves now but cold imagery) The sculptor to make Beauty by.

Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry, That babe, or mother, one must die; So in mercy left the stock, And cut the branch; to save the shock Of young years widow'd; and the pain, When Single State comes back again To the lone man who, 'reft of wife, Thenceforward drags a maimed life?

The economy of Heaven is dark; And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark, Why Human Buds, like this, should fall, More brief than fly ephemeral, That has his day; while shrivel'd crones Stiffen with age to stocks and stones; And crabbed use the conscience sears In sinners of an hundred years.

Mother's prattle, mother's kiss, Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss.

Rites, which custom does impose, Silver bells and baby clothes; Coral redder than those lips, Which pale death did late eclipse; Music framed for infants' glee, Whistle never tuned for thee; Though thou want'st not, thou shall have them, Loving hearts were they which gave them.

Let not one be missing; nurse, See them laid upon the hea.r.s.e Of infant slain by doom perverse.

Why should kings and n.o.bles have Pictured trophies to their grave; And we, churls, to thee deny Thy pretty toys with thee to lie, A more harmless vanity?

TO BERNARD BARTON

_With a Coloured Print_[6]

(1827)

When last you left your Woodbridge pretty, To stare at sights, and see the City, If I your meaning understood, You wish'd a Picture, cheap, but good; The colouring? decent; clear, not muddy; To suit a Poet's quiet study, Where Books and Prints for delectation Hang, rather than vain ostentation.

The subject? what I pleased, if comely; But something scriptural and homely: A sober Piece, not gay or wanton, For winter fire-sides to descant on; The theme so scrupulously handled, A Quaker might look on unscandal'd; Such as might satisfy Ann Knight, And cla.s.sic Mitford just not fright.

Just such a one I've found, and send it; If liked, I give--if not, but lend it.

The moral? nothing can be sounder.

The fable? 'tis its own expounder-- A Mother teaching to her Chit Some good book, and explaining it.

He, silly urchin, tired of lesson, His learning lays no mighty stress on, But seems to hear not what he hears; Thrusting his fingers in his ears, Like Obstinate, that perverse funny one, In honest parable of Bunyan.

His working Sister, more sedate, Listens; but in a kind of state, The painter meant for steadiness; But has a tinge of sullenness; And, at first sight, she seems to brook As ill her needle, as he his book.

This is the Picture. For the Frame-- 'Tis not ill-suited to the same; Oak-carved, not gilt, for fear of falling; Old-fashion'd; plain, yet not appalling; And sober, as the Owner's Calling.

[Footnote 6: From the venerable and ancient Manufactory of Carrington Bowles: some of my readers may recognise it.]

THE YOUNG CATECHIST[7]

(1827)

While this tawny Ethiop prayeth, Painter, who is she that stayeth By, with skin of whitest l.u.s.tre, Sunny locks, a shining cl.u.s.ter, Saint-like seeming to direct him To the Power that must protect him?

Is she of the Heaven-born Three, Meek Hope, strong Faith, sweet Charity: Or some Cherub?-- They you mention Far transcend my weak invention.

'Tis a simple Christian child, Missionary young and mild, From her stock of Scriptural knowledge, Bible-taught without a college, Which by reading she could gather, Teaches him to say OUR FATHER To the common Parent, who Colour not respects, nor hue.

White and black in him have part, Who looks not to the skin, but heart.

[Footnote 7: A Picture by Henry Meyer, Esq.]

SHE IS GOING

For their elder Sister's hair Martha does a wreath prepare Of bridal rose, ornate and gay: To-morrow is the wedding day: She is going.

Mary, youngest of the three, Laughing idler, full of glee, Arm in arm does fondly chain her, Thinking, poor trifler, to detain her-- But she's going.