By Stephen Phillips
75
iii
Father, since in your weaker thought,
And in your languor I was wrought,
Put me away, as creatures are;
I am infirm and full of care.
Feebly you brought me to the light;
Then softly hide me out of sight.
Now sooner will my strength be flown,
Nor will my mother sob alone.
iv
My son, stir up the fire, and pass,
Quickly the comfortable glass!
The infirm and evil fly in vain
Is toiling up the window pane.
Fill up! For life is so, nor sigh;
We cannot run from destiny.
Then fire thy strength that's quickly flown,
Hark! how thy mother sobs alone!
