85
SONNET.
How oft beneath His blest and healing wings
He would have gathered me, and I would not;
Like a weak bird, all heedless of my lot,
Perverse and idle in my wanderings.
Now my soul would return; and trembling brings
Her wearied pinion to its wonted rest;
And faint with its short flight and flutterings,
Would seek a refuge in its parent breast.
O Father! in thy mercy shelter me,
For I am worn with mortal miseries;
My dark and earth-entangled spirit free,
And plume it to ascend its native skies;
With loosened wing to thy high rest to soar,
And never to desert its mansion more!
He would have gathered me, and I would not;
Like a weak bird, all heedless of my lot,
Perverse and idle in my wanderings.
Now my soul would return; and trembling brings
Her wearied pinion to its wonted rest;
And faint with its short flight and flutterings,
Would seek a refuge in its parent breast.
O Father! in thy mercy shelter me,
For I am worn with mortal miseries;
My dark and earth-entangled spirit free,
And plume it to ascend its native skies;
With loosened wing to thy high rest to soar,
And never to desert its mansion more!
