Disjointed numbers; sense unknit;
        Huge reams of folly, shreds of wit;
        Compose the mingled mass of it.

        My scalded eyes no longer brook
        Upon this ink-blurr’d thing to look—­
        Go, shut the leaves, and clasp the book.

MISCELLANEOUS

ANGEL HELP[5]

(1827)

This rare tablet doth include
Poverty with Sanctitude. 
Past midnight this poor Maid hath spun,
And yet the work is not half done,
Which must supply from earning scant
A feeble bed-rid parent’s want. 
Her sleep-charged eyes exemption ask,
And Holy hands take up the task: 
Unseen the rock and spindle ply,
And do her earthly drudgery. 
Sleep, saintly poor one, sleep, sleep on;
And, waking, find thy labours done. 
Perchance she knows it by her dreams;
Her eye hath caught the golden gleams,
Angelic presence testifying,
That round her every where are flying;
Ostents from which she may presume,
That much of Heaven is in the room. 
Skirting her own bright hair they run,
And to the sunny add more sun: 
Now on that aged face they fix,
Streaming from the Crucifix;
The flesh-clogg’d spirit disabusing,
Death-disarming sleeps infusing,
Prelibations, foretastes high,
And equal thoughts to live or die. 
Gardener bright from Eden’s bower,
Tend with care that lily flower;
To its leaves and root infuse
Heaven’s sunshine, Heaven’s dews. 
’Tis a type, and ’tis a pledge,
Of a crowning privilege. 
Careful as that lily flower,
This Maid must keep her precious dower
Live a sainted Maid, or die
Martyr to virginity.

[Footnote 5:  Suggested by a drawing in the possession of Charles Aders, Esq., in which is represented the Legend of a poor female Saint; who, having spun past midnight, to maintain a bed-rid mother, has fallen asleep from fatigue, and Angels are finishing her work.  In another part of the chamber, an Angel is tending a lily, the emblem of purity.]

THE CHRISTENING

(1829)

Array’d—­a half-angelic sight—­
In vests of pure Baptismal white,
The Mother to the Font doth bring
The little helpless nameless thing,
With hushes soft and mild caressing,
At once to get—­a name and blessing. 
Close by the Babe the Priest doth stand,
The Cleansing Water at his hand,
Which must assoil the soul within
From every stain of Adam’s sin. 
The Infant eyes the mystic scenes,
Nor knows what all this wonder means;
And now he smiles, as if to say
“I am a Christian made this day;”
Now frighted clings to Nurse’s hold,
Shrinking from the water cold,
Whose virtues, rightly understood,
Are, as Bethesda’s waters, good. 
Strange words—­The World, The Flesh, The Devil—­
Poor Babe, what can it know of Evil? 
But we must silently adore