FILIAL PIETY

Untouched through all severity of cold;

Inviolate, whate'er the cottage hearth

Might need for comfort, or for festal mirth;

That Pile of Turf is half a century old:

Yes, Traveller! fifty winters have been told

Since suddenly the dart of death went forth

‘ Gainst him who raised it,— his last work on earth:

Thence has it, with the Son, so strong a hold

Upon his Father's memory, that his hands,

Through reverence, touch it only to repair

Its waste.— Though crumbling with each breath of air,

In annual renovation thus it stands —

Rude Mausoleum! but wrens nestle there,

And red-breasts warble when sweet sounds are rare.