No more beheld that water, falling, flow
Through the green fern that there delights to grow.
Once more permit me——Well, I know, you feel
For suffering men, and would their sufferings heal,
But when at certain huts you chose to call,
At certain seasons, was compassion all?
I there beheld thee, to the wretched dear 300
As angels to expiring saints appear
When whispering hope—I saw an infant press’d
And hush’d to slumber on my Emma’s breast!