WHEN our first parents were from Eden driven,
Through life-long years to bear a weary load ;
Urging their slow, tired footsteps on to heaven,
An angel journeyed with them on the road.
The glory of his face was veiled and hidden ;
Thus its sweet radiance they failed to scan.
Sin, by his voice, was ever, ever chidden :
He seemed the foe, and not the friend of man.
Whene'er they paused to gather deadly flowers,
Or pluck forbidden fruit from baneful boughs,
Or trifle with the solemn-footed hours,
God's angel bent on them his awful brows.
If from the narrow path, in pleasing wonder,
They roamed for idols 'mid the works of God :
He called upon them, in a voice of thunder,
And scourged them back with an avenging rod.
But if tow'rd heaven their eager footsteps hurried,
And each obedient, walked as God's dear child,
They felt not half the weary weight they carried ;
The angel softly spake, and sweetly smil'd,
" On to the Night of Death ; on to Life's Morning."
This weeping pair were by the angel driven,
With many a pensive smile, and solemn warning,
Until he left them at the gates of heaven.
Then when they never more his aid need borrow ;
Then he unveiled at last his radiant face :
He is the friend of Man his name is Sorrow
He walks with us and all the human race.
