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’?