68 THE WEAVEE?S BOY. Wound her 1ov'd offspring, and she will not fly, She first defends them, then with them will die: In death's last pang, beside them bleeding lies, Licks their poor wounds, and, as she licks them, dies. But thou, whom guilt than brute has render'd less, Sunk in the .depths of sordid selfishness, On thine own child dost wreak thy wanton rage, And nip the blossom of his tender age. How couldst .thou snatch kind Nature's precious boon, Which Nature's self, alas, revokes too soon, That uncoscem, which happy childhood knows, Those buoyant spirits, and that blest repose, Which fears no {uture, and laments no past, Nor asks the present, if it flies too fast-- That present, none but they their own can call, In whichtheir joys, their griefs, are center'd all-? O how disturb the pure, untroubled source, Whence childhood?s tears derive their gentle course, Bid them no longer from the surface ?1ow, But ope the deep, the bitter, fount below ? And cause the sigh no longer to depart Light as the breeze, but wring it from the heart ? Go, bid the tear the cheek of m?nhood steep, 'Tis manhood's lot to suffer, and to weep; Hurl to his bosom sorrow's keenest dart, But spare, O spare, sweet childhood's careless heart ! ......... ?Google
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