PART II.] CHILDHOOD. 



Which well she loved, as well she tnew to sing, 

 While we around her formed a little ring : 

 She told of innocence foredoom'd to bleed, 

 Of wicked guardians bent on bloody deed, 

 Or little children murder'd as they slept ; 

 While at each pause we wrung our hands and wept. 

 Sad was such tale, and wonder much did we, 

 Such hearts of stone there in the world could be. 

 Poor simple wights, ah ! little did we ween 

 The ills that wait on man in life's sad scene ! 

 Ah, little thought that we ourselves should know, 

 This world's a world of weeping and of woe ! 



Beloved moment ! then 'twas first I caught 

 The first foundation of romantic thought. 

 Then first I shed bold Fancy's thrilling tear. 

 Then first that poesy charm'd mine infant ear. 

 Soon stored with much of legendary lore, 

 The sports of childhood charm'd my soul no more. 

 Far from the scene of gaiety and noise, 

 Far, far from turbulent and empty joys, 

 I hied me to the thick o'erarching shade, 

 And there, on mossy carpet listless laid, 

 While at my feet the rippling runnel ran. 

 The days of wild romance antique I'd scan ; 

 Soar on the wings of fancy through the air. 

 To realms of light, and pierce the radiance there. 

 i^ » * * 



Part IT. 

 There are, who think that Childhood does not sh 

 With age the cup, the bitter cup of care : 

 Alas ! they know not this unhappy truth, 

 That every age, and rank, is born to ruth. 



From the first dawn of reason in the mind, 

 :Man is foredoom'd the thorns of grief to find ; 

 At every step has further cause to know, 

 The draught of pleasure still is dash'd with wee. 



