The Liberator

POETRY.

A PARENT'S PRAYER.

BY REV. LEONARD WILMINGTON.

I.

At this hushed hour, when all my children sleep,
Here, in thy presence, gracious God, I kneel;
And, while the tears of gratitude I weep,
Would pour the prayer which gratitude must feel:
Parental love! O set thy holy seal
On these soft hearts which thou to me hast sent;
Repel temptation, guard their better weal
Be thy pure spirit to their frailty lent;
And lead them in the path their infant Saviour went.

II.

I ask not for them, eminence or wealth-
For these, in wisdom's view, are trifling toys;
But occupation, competence and health,
Thy love, thy presence, and the lasting joys
That flow therefrom; the passion which employs
The breasts of holy men; and thus to be
From all that taints, or darkens, or destroys
The strength of principle forever free;
This is the better boon, O God, I ask of thee.

III.

If these soft feet, which now these feathers press,
Are doom'd the path of ruin soon to tread;
If vice, concealed in her unspotted dress,
Is soon to lure to her polluted bed;
If thy foreseeing eye discerns a thread
Of sable guilt, impelling on their doom,
O spare them not-in mercy strike them dead;
Prepare for them an early, welcome tomb,
Nor for eternal blight let my false blossoms bloom.

IV.

And teach me, Power Supreme, in their green days,
With meekest skill, thy lessons to impart,-
To shun the harlot, and to show the maze
Thro' which her honeyed accents reach the heart
Help them to learn, without the bitter smart
Of bad experience, vices to decline;
From treachery, falsehood, knavery, may they start
As from a hidden snake; from lust and wine-
From all the guilty pangs with which low scenes combine.

V.

Though Persecution's archers o'er them spread,
Or sickness undermine, consuming slow;
Though they should lead the life their Saviour led,
And his deep poverty be doomed to know;
Wherever thou shalt order, let them go;
I give them up to thee-they are not mine;
And I could call the swiftest winds to blow
To bear them from me to the Pole or Line,
To distant lands to plant the Gospel's bleeding shrine.