23
Is there no Pity, no relenting truth,
Points to the Parents fondling o'er their Child?
Then paints the ruin'd Maid, and their destruction wild!
But now the Supper crowns their simple board,
The oatmeal parridge cheap and wholesome food,
The milk their only cow does well afford,
That in the orchard peaceful chews her cud;
The Dams brings forth in complimental mood,
To please the Lad, the cheese she would not sell,
And oft he's prest, and oft he calls it good;
The frugal housewife, talkative will tell
How 'twas a twelvemonth old, since flax was in the bell.
The cheerful Supper done with serious face,
They round the embers form a circle wide;
The Sire turns o'er with Patriarchial grace,
The huge big Bible, once his Father's pride,
His hat is reverently laid aside,
His hoary locks growing so thin and bare:
From strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He takes a portion with judicious care;
And 'Let us worship God!' he says, with solemn air.
Then kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal King,
The Saint, the Father, and the Husband prays;
Hope 'springs exulting on triumphant wing,'
That thus they all shall meet in future days:
There ever dwell in uncreated rays,
to more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear,
together hymning their Redeemer's praise,
such society, yet still more dear;
While circling Time, moves round in an eternal sphere.
