Silent alone, where none or saw or heard,
In pathless paths I lead my wandering feet;
My humble eyes to lofty Skyes I rear'd,
To sing some song my mazed Muse thought meet.
My great Creator I would magnifie,
That nature had thus decked liberally;
But Ah, and Ah, again my imbecility.
The reader who may be disposed to echo this last line must bear in mind always, that stilted as much of this may seem, it was in the day in which it appeared a more purely natural voice than had been heard at all, and as the poem proceeds it gains both in force and beauty. As usual she reverts to the past for illustrations and falls into a meditation aroused by the sights and sounds about her. The path has led to the meadows not far from the river, where—
I heard the merry grasshopper then sing,
The black-clad Cricket, bear a second part,
They kept one tune and plaid on the same string,
Seeming to glory in their little Art.
Shall Creatures abject, thus their voices raise?
And in their kind resound their makers praise,
Whilst I as mute, can warble forth no higher layes.
* * * * *
When present times look back to Ages past,
And men in being fancy those are dead,
It makes things gone perpetually to last,
And calls back moneths and years that long since fled.
It makes a man more aged in conceit,
Then was Methuselah, or's grandsire great;
While of their persons & their acts his mind doth treat.
* * * * *
Sometimes in Eden fair, he seems to be,
Sees glorious Adam there made Lord of all,
Fancyes the Apple, dangle on the Tree,
That turn'd his Sovereign to a naked thral,
Who like a miscreant's driven from that place,
To get his bread with pain and sweat of face
A penalty impos'd on his backsliding Race.
* * * * *
Here sits our Grandame in retired place,
And in her lap, her bloody Cain new-born,
The weeping Imp oft looks her in the face,
Bewails his unknown hap and fate forlorn;
His Mother sighs to think of Paradise,
And how she lost her bliss to be more wise,
Beleiving him that was, and is Father of lyes.
* * * * *