Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/132
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FOLLY.
"Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep;
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take."
I pray the Lord my soul to keep;
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take."
The warrior on the battlefield,
After the battle—pillowing his head,
Perhaps, upon a fallen comrade dead—
Scorns not to yield
To the sweet memories of his childhood's hour,
When fame was bartered for a crimson flower.
The statesman grey,
His massive brow all hung with laurel leaves,
Forgets his honours while his memory weaves
A picture of that home, 'mid woods and streams,
Where hoary mountains caught the sun's first beams;
A cabin rude—the wide fields glistening,
The cattle yoked, and mutely listening;
The farmer's toil, the farmer's face, and, best
Of earthly luxuries, the farmer's rest.
But hark! a soft voice steals upon his heart:
"Now say your prayer, my son, before we part
And clasping his great hands—a child once more—
Upon his breast, forgetting life's long war,
Thus hear him pray:
"Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep;
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take."
After the battle—pillowing his head,
Perhaps, upon a fallen comrade dead—
Scorns not to yield
To the sweet memories of his childhood's hour,
When fame was bartered for a crimson flower.
The statesman grey,
His massive brow all hung with laurel leaves,
Forgets his honours while his memory weaves
A picture of that home, 'mid woods and streams,
Where hoary mountains caught the sun's first beams;
A cabin rude—the wide fields glistening,
The cattle yoked, and mutely listening;
The farmer's toil, the farmer's face, and, best
Of earthly luxuries, the farmer's rest.
But hark! a soft voice steals upon his heart:
"Now say your prayer, my son, before we part
And clasping his great hands—a child once more—
Upon his breast, forgetting life's long war,
Thus hear him pray:
"Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep;
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take."
Folly.
There is folly in all the world,
Or go we east or west;
A folly that vexes the old,
And keeps the young from rest.
Or go we east or west;
A folly that vexes the old,
And keeps the young from rest.
The miser has folly enough,
For his soul is in sordid bags;
And the spendthrift's folly, alas!
Brings him to sin and rags.
For his soul is in sordid bags;
And the spendthrift's folly, alas!
Brings him to sin and rags.