THE COTTAGE by JONES VERY

The house my earthly parent left,
My heavenly Father e'er throws down;
For 'tis of air and sun bereft,
Nor stars its roof in 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 was from all my grief 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 Father, God.

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