Sure it was so. Man in those early days Was not all stone and earth; He shined a little, and by those weak rays Had some glimpse of his birth. He saw Heaven o'er his head, and knew from whence He came, condemned hither; And, as first love draws strongest, so from hence His mind sure progressed thither. Things here were strange unto him: sweat and till, All was a thorn or weed: Nor did those last, but — like himself — died still As soon as they did seed. They seemed to quarrel with him, for that act That felled him foiled them all: He drew the curse upon the world, and cracked The whole frame with his fall. This made him long for home, as loth to stay With murmurers and foes; He sighed for Eden, and would often say, "Ah! what bright days were those!" Nor was Heaven cold unto him; for each day The valley or the mountain Afforded visits, and still paradise lay In some green shade or fountain. Angels lay lieger here; each bush and cell, Each oak and highway knew them; Walk but the fields, or sit down at some well, And he was sure to view them. Almighty Love! where art Thou now? Mad man Sits down and freezeth on; HE raves, and swears to stir nor fire, nor fan, But bids the thread be spun. I see, Thy curtains are close-drawn; Thy bow Sin triumphs still, and man is sunk below The center, and his shroud. All's in deep sleep and night: thick darkness lies And hatcheth o'er Thy people — But hark! what trumpet's that? what angel cries, "Arise! thrust in Thy sickle"?