"A stranger, ignorant of the trade, Would say, no meaning's there conveyed; For where's the middle, where's the border? Quoth Dick, "My work is yet in bits: But still in every part it fits: Why, man, that carpet's inside out." Says John, "Thou sayest the thing I mean, This world, which clouds thy soul with doubt, 66 As when we view these shreds and ends, "No plan, no pattern, can we trace; "But when we reach the world of light, And own, the Workman is Divine. “What now seem random strokes, will there All order and design appear; Then shall we praise what then we spurned, For then the carpet will be turned." "Thou'rt right," quoth Dick, "no more I'll grumble That this world is so strange a jumble; My impious doubts are put to flight, For my own carpet sets me right." WHAT IS TIME? BY MARSDEN. I ASKED an aged man, with hoary hairs, Sages who wrote, and warriors who bled; From the cold grave a hollow murmur flowed, Of life had left its veins; "Time!" he replied; I asked the Seasons, in their annual round ""Tis Folly's blank, and Wisdom's highest prize!" Consulted, and it made me this reply,— I asked Old Father Time himself at last ; 256 POETIC RECITATIONS. That pavement, damp and cold, No mingling voices sound- A sob suppressed-again That short deep gasp, and then The parting groan. Oh! change-oh! wondrous change Burst are the prison-bars,— So agonised, and now Beyond the stars! Oh! change-stupendous change! There lies the soulless clod: The sun eternal breaks The new immortal wakes Wakes with his God. |