And weened the end of that dire pest,
From heaven’s high-counselled lord to wrest.
Now their applause with mockery flouts mine ear.
O could’st thou ope my heart and read it here,
How little sire and son
For such huge meed of thanks have done!
My father was a grave old gentleman,
Who o’er the holy secrets of creation,
Sincere, but after his peculiar plan,
Brooded, with whimsied speculation.