And yet the practice worldlings call Business, and weighty action all, Checking the poor child for his play, But gravely cast themselves away. Dear, harmless age! the short, swift span Where weeping Virtue parts with man; Where love without lust dwells, and bends What way we please without self-ends. An age of mysteries! which he Must live twice that would God’s face see; Which angels guard, and with it play; Angels! which foul men drive away. How do I study now, and scan Thee more than e’er I studied man, And only see through a long night Thy edges and thy bordering light! O for thy centre and mid-day! For sure that is the narrow way! CORRUPTION SURE it was so. Man in those early days Was not all stone and earth; He shined a little, and by those weak rays Had some glimpse of his birth. He saw heaven o’er his head, and knew from whence He came, condemned, hither; And, as first-love draws strongest, so from hence His mind sure progressed thither. Things here were strange unto him; sweat and till; All was a thorn or weed; Nor did those last, but—like himself—died still As soon as they did seed; They seemed to quarrel with him; for that act, That fell him, foiled them all; He drew the curse upon the world, and cracked The whole frame with his fall. This made him long for home, as loth to stay With murmurers and foes; He sighed for Eden, and would often say, ‘Ah! what bright days were those!’ Nor was heaven cold unto him; for each day The valley or the mountain Afforded visits, and still Paradise lay In some green shade or fountain. Angels lay leiger here; each bush, and cell, Each oak and highway knew them: Walk but the fields, or sit down at some well, And he was sure to view them. Almighty Love! where art Thou now? mad man Sits down and freezeth on; He raves, and swears to stir nor fire, nor fan, But bids the thread be spun. I see Thy curtains are close-drawn; Thy bow Looks dim, too, in the cloud; Sin triumphs still, and man is sunk below The centre, and his shroud. All’s in deep sleep and night: thick darkness lies And hatcheth o’er Thy people— But hark! what trumpet’s that? what angel cries ‘Arise! thrust in Thy sickle’? THE NIGHT THROUGH that pure virgin shrine, That sacred veil drawn o’er Thy glorious noon, That men might look and live, as glow-worms shine, And face the moon: Wise Nicodemus saw such light As made him know his God by night.