Page:Poems By Chauncy Hare Townshend.djvu/92

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72 TIlE WEAVER'$ :BOY. Thither a peasant, at the dawn of day, Bore in his arms a fresh supply of hay; Whistling in careless mirth, approach'd the rack, Uprais'd his eyes, and trembling started back: He saw th' unhappy boy's suspended weight, And cut in haste the cord--It was too late ! The spirit was for ever fled. Ah, where ? Nay, fond, rash man, bereverent, and forbeax ! The eyes of the Omniscient may see A door of mercy, unespied by thee. What felt the father ? 'Twas regretted pelf, The hate of labor, "I must work myself," And some slight shame of man suffus'd his cheek, And made him falter, as he strove to speak: "Yes, I have been too harsh.'* In under tone, "Had I been less, he might have still work'd on." Not always, Conscience, does thy hand direct Its sleeping bolts, when man would most expect. Unmov'd the murderer eyes the blood;stain'd knife, Which slew the father, or remov'd the wife. God gives the word, and, !o, thy terrors wake, Nor know again the slumber, which they break, To shew that thou from Him alone art sent, With Him alone dwells guilt'sdread chastisement. Ah, then thy goads the soul to madness urge, Thy hand unpitying plies the noiseless scourge; ......... ?Google