The Cottage
The house my earthly parent left
My heavenly parent still throws down,
For ’tis of air and sun bereft,
Nor stars its roof with beauty crown.
He gave it me, yet gave it not
As one whose gifts are wise and good;
’Twas but a poor and clay-built cot,
And for a time the storms withstood.
But lengthening years and frequent rain
O’ercame its strength; it tottered, fell,
And left me homeless here again,
And where to go I could not tell.
But soon the light and open air
Received me as a wandering child,
And I soon thought their house more fair,
And all my grief their love beguiled.
Mine was the grove, the pleasant field
Where dwelt the flowers I daily trod;
And there beside them too I kneeled
And called their friend my friend and God.
