I
have, from my childhood, delighted in poetry: if
lonely, it was my companion; if sad, my comfort;
if glad, it gave a voice to my joy. Of late, I have
enjoyed writing pieces of a religious nature, though
I must confess the excitement, the possession which
the act of composition made of my mind, did not
always favor the experience of what I sought to express.
Two pieces of this kind I asked my father to
send to the _Friend_: he liked them, but proposed my
adding something to one. I had had a sweet little
season by myself just before: then, sliding from feeling
to composition, I thought of it all the rest of the
evening, and when I went to bed, stayed some time
writing four lines for the conclusion; after I was in
bed, my heart was full of it, and I composed four
lines more to precede them, with which I fell asleep.
In the morning I resolved not to think of them till
I had had my silent devotions; they came upon me
while I was dressing, and, having forgotten one line,
I stayed long making a substitute: then I retired to
read, and, if possible, to pray, but it was not possible
in that condition: I did but sit squaring and polishing
my lines; and having finished them to my heart's
content, I gave them to my father about the middle
of the day, conscious, I could not but be, that they
had "passed as a cloud between the mental eye of
faith and things unseen.
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