Infancy, a Didactic Poem. Book III

Again from busy care, from thoughts which prey On the reflecting mind, from the rank walks Of Men, where folly dwells, and base design, And flattery mean, and servile complaisance, From the dissembled Friend whose hollow heart Professing service, aims but to deceive, I seek the Muse; whose charms can softly steal Affliction from itself, whose power can smoothe The paths of rugged toil, can heal the wound Of discontent, and calm the throbbing breast Of indignation. To my theme again Well-pleased I turn, and view the simple race Of Infant Innocence, as yet unwarp'd By education, blameless nature their's, And passions undebauch'd, from envy free, From guile, and that assembled crew of ills Produced by commerce with a tainted world.

AND say wilt Thou (to whom long since had flow'd The grateful strain, if apprehensive doubt Had not shrunk fearful from the public eye, And dreaded lest thy praises should appear Link'd to our slighted numbers.) Say, wilt Thou, CULLEN! Unrivall'd Master of thy art! Of soul acute throughout the winding maze Of every devious system, to pursue And mark the steps of error! By whose aid Edina rears her Academic palm! While to thy precepts listening, gathers round Attentive Youth from each far-distant shore, And bigot envy droops beneath the ray Of thy superior lustre! In whose heart Dwells candour, inmate of the truly great, And modest diffidence. Whom judgment sage By long experience taught, directs to fix The bounds of theory, ne'er own'd a guide But where observance faithfully severe Hath ceased to pry; yet by her labours skill'd, As with a glance, nicely to separate What vulgar minds by seeming likeness caught, Absurdly blend; and deem thy conduct rash, Till they behold with wonder health array Those cheeks in rosy mantle, lately view'd As death's pale harbingers. For to thy eye Memory her fairest tablet swift presents, And method gives that readiness of thought By them ascribed to fancy, but which springs From painful application. Say wilt Thou Accept our tributary verse? Thou wilt. For in thy breast the softer graces dwell, Nor hath Philosophy with stern controul Lessen'd the milder virtues of the Man; Thine is the breath sincere of friendship, thine Compassion's unaffected ardour, thine The Husband's and the Father's tender love, And warm benevolence incircling all.

AT length, from stricter vigilance, the Child Is freed O Mother, wean'd from thy embrace. Yet the refused thy bosom, still attend With guardian mind, still prize our lays, for thee, For Him, attuned; sincere, however else Wanting due ornament; nor haply needs Important truth the vivid dress of words, The tinsel decorations which the song Inferior claims. Nine moons are past, twelve more As we have taught, proceed; such thrifty fare Is best; thy Child's pure nature doth not ask Variety of meats. He thrives, He grows, His cheeks unsullied bloom, his soul expands, Thou seest his smiles, his gay incessant voice Resounds; what covets thy fond wish? And now His strength increased, his more elastic limbs By constant motion exercised, his teeth Given for utility, not shew, demand Food more substantial. Yet, by every grace Which doth, or ought t' inspire the female breast, By holy temperance, by every nice Exciting sensibility, but chief By that internal sting which goads the soul To potent love of offspring, I conjure, I charge thee, Mother, Friend, with strict regard Consult thy Child's unvitiated taste. Oh! as Thou would'st th' invenom'd adder shun, Renounce their false opinion, who seduced By ignorance misjudging, think whate'er Delights their grosser appetites, will please Will suit his unhabituated lip; And thus unknowing but with liberal hand Cherish their Babes with poison. Wretched Race! Unconscious Criminals! Murthering thro love The hapless Beings they would die to save.

By social laws estranged from Nature's paths, We lead an artificial life; and feel Unnumber'd wants, which indolence begets On fond imagination. Polisht high, The cultivated manners yield no doubt Joys of superior kind; hence speaks the stone At sculpture's touch, the breathing Canvas lives, And Poetry and Music fire the soul. A thousand nameless elegancies mix Our jarring minds, and by collision soft Vanquish their native roughness; modest Love Binds her enchanting Cestus; on our steps The Graces wait; we drop the tear humane Of sacred pity; and Benevolence Tho powerless to relieve, affords a sigh. The chaster Genius of convivial mirth Around our table smiles, and drives far off Brutal ebriety; profusion yields The place to neatness; and th' internal sense Is caterer to th' external. Thus upraised By slow degrees from barbarism obscure Man gains his elevation. Oh! how blest, Could ever-roving Fancy be content! But always on the wing She strains her slight In quest of novelty. Hence every thread Fine-stretch'd before, must still be finer drawn. Our polisht manners turn to frivolous; The soul of Art neglected, We behold The outward shew; unskill'd to comprehend The large design, on parts minute, on toys, And splendid colourings we doat; reject The strain emphatic, curious of the phrase Uncommon, or sonorons period round; And music must surprize, not charm the heart. To elegance succeeds the spurious brood Of soft voluptuousness. Love, holy love, The fairest flower life's garden e'er can boast, Falls to the ground, and changeful wantonness Rank particolour'd weed springs forth, sure bane To every virtue. Pity dwindles down To mean self-love; and seeming generous, We're but the slaves of vanity. We seek We covet the protracted meal, and still Goad, as it palls, our jaded appetite With new incentives. Ransack every elime, Commerce the boasted cause, for every rare And stimulating condiment, spread o'er Our northern boards the spices of the south, Adapted to it's habitants, to us Noxious, and only fit to gratify The sense debauch'd which loathes it's proper fare.

FOR by cold gales our muscles firmly braced Act with due force: Or else th' ethereal stream Perhaps condensed, flows stronger from the brain, And gives to every limb it's healthful tone. Not so beneath more torrid Heavens, there sink The vital powers, to mortal languor doom'd, Unless excited by the quickening warmth Of aliment more active. What to them Nature commands, to us her laws forbid. And tho unconscious of immediate ill, At length the stomach, harrasst and o'erworn By this licentious diet, fails; the pulse Weakly contracts, each nerve decays, old age Hastes immaturely on, and round the brow Scatters untimely snows. The softer Sex Indulging thus, besides the common lot, Suffer peculiar accidents, which well The skilful Muse, if so inclined, could sing. E'en accidents which thwart the general law, Nor to their much-desiring souls allow To clasp a Child, and bear a Mother's name.

BUT whether Thou beneath the sordid yoke Of luxury wilt not bend, and truly wise, Refined, but not enervate, view'st with joy The plain and frugal table, such as erst Angels and Patriarchs sought: Or whether warp'd By tyrant custom, as we blushing own Many there are in these degenerate days, Women, the worst of Epicures; remove Far from thy Children each high-seasoned dish, Each sauce impregnate with the seeds of fire, Each spice, and pungent vegetable, none Admit, of foreign or of native growth.

SHORT is the time stretch'd to its utmost date Of Man's existence; to contract thy own Intent, yet spare thy Child; draw not a veil O'er the young morn of life: From thee He springs, Would'st thou so quickly trace his setting beam? Plunged in death's sable wave ere thou hast run Thy own brief day? Daughter of Fashion! no. Tho all thy relative affections fade, And every soft sensation droops beneath The sickly blast of pleasure, tho thou flit'st On giddy plume and thoughtless, mid the wilds Of vanity and folly, we acquit Thy devious soul of wilful homicide. Read then our moral page, and better taught, Know right from wrong, and sense, by action, prove. Should'st thou reject our lays (as who can scan The deeds of mad caprice?) well-pleased we turn From gay saloons, from courts, from haughty wealth, And midnight riot, to more gentle scenes, Sure of the spotless heart, and it's applause.

LEARN from thy Child, O Parent! He will teach Full oft the diet suited to his frame. View with what marks of loathing, He at first Rejects the hot and acrid; instinct dwells Within, a faithful guard; his rapid pulse And native warmth by these are quickly urged Beyond their bounds. He relishes the bland, And to thy taste insipid; these controul Each motion, nor permit his heat to rise Above it's due degree. Nor less he shuns Destructive Bacchus; why then will his Sire By frequent repetition strive t' o'ercome Nature's dislike? why, but because himself Fond of the rosy God, and led astray By reverend prejudice, he wholesome deems The fever-stirring draught? Nor wants he names Of high authority, Physicians sage To justify his creed. But Use destroys The benefit He seeks, and if disease Should wine's assistance claim, it then may lose Its medicinal power. To every word Each act attentive, Children imitate Whate'er they see or hear; this principle Strongly within their little breasts alive, Impels them oft to venture hardy war Against antipathy. Of this beware, The struggle nicely mark, and point their aim To proper objects. Nor because You praise The circling glass, and they with many a sip Vanquish their feelings, deem that Nature prompts To what, except more rarely, it abhors.

INDULGE aversion, combat with desire; A maxim safe and just; for this, by Art Misled, may urge to danger, but t' abstain Will prove at least innocuous. Nor believe That from ourselves We judge, and interdict What our own taste refuses. When the frame Is perfect, when the fibres have acquired Their utmost growth, more steady are the laws Of our corporeal organs, less disturbed, To change less subject. Never would I shun The friendly intercourse of souls, which wine In moderate draughts augments. We know it's power To cheer the wretch desponding and forlorn Upon the sickly couch; to mitigate Stern fever's putrid vehemence; excite The torpid heart, till it propell anew The languid-circling blood, in every vein More strenuously alive; to calm the rage Of phrenzy, and imagination's tide Vague-shifting to controul, till reason smile. Full well we know it's power to raise the strength Of drooping age, and in his sluggish limbs Awake the latent fire. But Childhood needs No foreign aid to stimulate the brain. Ever with rapid speed from forth that fount Of heat and motion bursts the nervous stream; Each irritable fibre is full-fraught Almost t' excess, nor asks the least supply. Canst thou improve on Nature? She this store Puts to it's proper use; this urges on In due proportion each increasing tube, Muscle, and bone, and ligament. Canst thou Direct her actions? Rather shalt thou find T' exceed, will cause defect, thy Child curtail'd Of his just size and stature, weak, and wan. And should He rush hereafter, madly rush Amid th' intemperate herd, and daily seek The noisy rout of Comus, how, too late Wilt thou repentant mourn thy rash exploit, His appetite first led astray by thee, His early relish of the fervid bowl!

NICE, and perhaps erroneous in their plan, The younger animals as yielding less Of due nutrition, and digested slow, Some disallow. That, food prepared from those Of growth mature, thro th' intestinal maze Less tardily proceeds, we not deny: More acrid are the juices it contains, Whence stimulating more; it's fibres hard With labour wrought to chyle. The young are bland, Composed of humours suited to the young, Viscous, nutritious, slower in their course. But as th' absorbents greedily imbibe Whate'er is nutritive, by this delay They drink their fill, and to the solids add The mild tenacious substance. Yet, not bound To partial theory, without reserve We bid thee take thy choice of all the tribes Which bounteous Heaven affords, and common use Before thee sets, of every age and size. All but the stall'd, and cramm'd, by filthy sloth And gluttony, perverted from the state Of wholesome nature; send the mass corrupt Of nauseous humours, and of rancid oil Far from thy board. In simplest manner drest, Of these one daily meal we grant thy child, But not commixt, his be one dish alone. Grudge not with these of vegetable store A plenteous portion, nor permit the bread To lye untouch'd beside him. Thus indulge His appetite, and let him freely eat Till hunger be sufficed. This rule observe; All animals which wildly range the earth, Or fluid air, and all of vigorous age With flesh of darker grain, experience finds More alkalescent, these the freer use Of plants and herbs acescent will demand. The tame, the young, and those of whiter hue, Require them less. Heed well what we condemn; All things which housewife art with care preserves, Acid, or salt, or saccharine: all cates Of unfermented flour composed, or those Of fulsome sweetness, and enrich'd with wine.

THESE let thy Child avoid. And be his drink The purest element, with which of old, Heroes, and Champions at th' Olympic games, Sated their thirst, and glorious deeds perform'd, In war, and manly exercise; or He The Heaven-devoted Nazarene, to whom Cords were as threads, when fired with holy zeal He burst his bonds, and with his single hand Hew'd down opposing armies. Hence each spring, And limpid fountain, every stream which flow'd Soft-murmuring o'er it's pebbled bed, was graced By wise antiquity with hallowed forms, Pure nymphs, and gentle Naiads. Well they knew The virtues of the crystal wave, e'er vile Fermented liquors had enslaved their taste, And thinn'd mankind. Pass we th' Atlantic foam, Where Britain o'er her Alien Sons now claims Disputed sway; a hardy people there Inhabited, bold, active, in the chace Unequall'd, patient of fatigue, to foes Tho unrelenting, yet to honour just, True to their plighted faith, to strangers kind, Not one of limb deform'd, or trembling nerve Among them dwelt, and numerous were the tribes.

WE did not root them out with savage hand, And bathe their fields in blood, but to their lips More slyly proffer'd the Circean charm. They drank the poison down, and by degrees Relinquish'd their paternal fields to us. Rare, scatter'd are their clans, some quite extinct, Potent of yore, ere the destroying draught Was introduced. The remnant are corrupt, Perfidious, treacherous; European cups Have taught them every European vice. Still flourishing perhaps, had they disdain'd The snare, contented with the simple streams Which issue from their rocks. Give then thy Child The blameless fluid, friendly to mankind, From whence Hygeia fills her sacred urn, Nectar of paradise; nor will He gain Unless debauch'd, a liquor to his taste More grateful. Nay, would'st thou, if age permit, And strength unbroken, thy example add, Trust me no other beverage will so well Assist digestion, none the spirits cheer, Inspire with calm serenity the mind, And make the night glide by in tranquil sleep.

BUT lo! where with Vertumnus comes the Nymph Presiding o'er the garden, in her hand Waves Amalthea's horn, whence prodigal Her freshest store descends. She asks me, why This long neglect? And bids me sing her gifts. Her various fruits, whose juices the warm fdun By secret fermentation hath matured From aqueous, acid, bitter, and austere To rich luxurious flavour. Hither lead The Childish train indulgent, let not fear In scanty measure to their taste impart The ripe and wholesome banquet. Still while roll The summer months along, while heat intenfe Darts through our frame, and stimulates our nerves, Till languor each o'erlabour'd thread subdue, And in each tube the purple current teems With seeds of putrid violence, to them The summer months innocuous roll along, Innocuous glows the fervid sky, controul'd Their baneful influence by Pomona's aid.

FOR them, unsparing (for we scarce can set The limits of restriction) pluck thy fruits, Nature's delicious antidote 'gainst all The hidden venom of the fultry year, Mild. cooling, saponaceous. nutritive. For them the blushing berry underneath It's verdant leaf is hid, for them adorns It's rough and prickly shrub, for them depends The clustering currant from it's smoother stem. For them is deck'd each tree. The ruddy peach, The golden apricot, the cherry, boast Of Kentish soil, the fragrant nectarine, The plum, green, purple, azure, the moist pear, The apple, theme of the Silurian Bard, In fulness of profusion grow for them. Nor would I when by chance more vigorous suns It's harshness meliorate, not cull for them Th' autumnal grape, nor to their lips forbid The well-rear'd melon, nor th' Ananas' rich And poignant crispness. They are form'd for all, And all for them. More cautiously supply Whate'er by rough or bitter husk and shell Is circumscribed, and all the hoard which asks The mellowing hand of age. Or those we gain From climes far-distant, ere they have acquired Their just perfection gather'd; shaddock crude, Pomegranate, orange. Let Hesperia's Sons, Let th' Antillean Planter, or the Tribes Of fertile Asia, gratify their taste With all th' unlabour'd bounty of their soil; Yet is not our's ungrateful; industry Here cloathes our fields, our gardens, and our groves, With plenty all it's own; Pomona smiles; For cultivation oft bestows a zest, Which wild exuberant Nature would deny.

ERE yet we close the strain, one error more The Muse will combat. Tenderness may prompt Whene'er thy Child shall ask thee, to bestow The needless viand. In his younger days We bound thee not to rules. But now when o'er His head four annual suns have roll'd, advise That he be taught submission to the laws Of social life, which stated hours appoints For action, and repast. Nor heed the voice Of ignorance, which talks of exercise, And quick digestion. Often well we know The vicious taste of idle wantonness Demands restraint. But lest to thee it seem As real hunger, from the coarser loaf, A pure, tho homely nutriment, supply His craving; thus, with certainty detect Fictitious appetite. His other meals Yet undirected, both at morn and eve, Be fresh drawn broths, and milk in various forms With rice, or other farinaceous grain Inspissated. We would not stint thy Child, And know his growth requires a constant flux Of plastic fluids; nay, 'tis best to err, If err, in quantity; the flexile tubes Of Children, will perhaps with ease transpire What is redundant. But with heed observe: Add thy discretion to the Muse's lore: And reason, and experience be thy guides.

Now duly taught by thy maternal care, O never may He turn his vagrant steps Aside to dwell mid the polluted tents Of bestial luxury! We would not wish A stoical indifference, to fly Forever those delights which sway mankind, Th' exhilarating bowl, which opes the heart; And festive banquet, where preside the powers Of wit and decent mirth; but may He live, Born for society, no hermit sour, Or driveling moralist, absurdly grave, And singularly dull. Temperate by choice, But not austerely abstinent. By thee Is the foundation in his primal years Firm laid, by which he need not sacrifice To rigid niceness; but with health his friend, Will not start back from every little change, Which weaker habits must with caution shun, Or cannot with impunity indulge. Thine is the work, and gratitude shall then Repay the debt, the filial debt he owes. Then shalt thou feel, tho strong th' instinctive tye Of blind affection, what sublimer joys Reason affords, the generous mutual bond, Thy tender love, his tribute of the soul.

THUS far the Muse Didactic hath assay'd Her purposed theme, scattering before the steps Of Truth and Science, o'er their toilsome paths The not unfrequent flower; the sweets which bloom On those delicious banks forever green, Fed by translucent rills which murmuring sweep O'er sands of gold; where Fancy loveliest Nymph Delighted strays, or with the Sylvan powers, Dryads, and Fauns, disporting, joins the dance; And sings her wildest note; or silent stands, Her roving eye, her giddy step enthrall'd, Attentive to Minerva's heavenly voice, Enamour'd of her wisdom; and from Her Receives the potent wand by Judgment form'd, And waves it o'er her works, which thence remain Unfading and immortal. Rest not here O Virgin, still be Infant Man thy theme; And what of cloathing, what of exercise He needs, relate: nor his diseases scorn With hand benign to paint, and teach the cure.

THOU wilt not, if the sharp inclement air Of cold neglect freeze not thy vital warmth, And in the cave of solitude fast bind Thy wings aspiring, which shall shed their plumes Of varied die, or fold thee ever round In sullen indignation. Rather far From thee be thoughts like these! Stoop not thy soul To fears of vulgar nature; high above This sordid earth direct thy piercing eye, And view where rear'd beyond the gulph of Death Stands Fame's refulgent dome, to living Wight Aye inaccessible. Still, as of yore Thou sought'st th' Ascrean, or the Mantuan Bard, Thy visions spread before my raptured sight, And soothe my ear with those celestial strains, Which on Olympus' lofty top reclined, Charm Jove himself: while virtue, reason, truth, Humanity, and love, each sound applaud, And bless th' unprostituted lyre. Oh! hail Ye pure, ethereal Bards, who nobly stoop'd To teach mankind! who round the flowing locks Of fancy, cast the sacred wreathe, inwove By the fair fingers of Utility, Which scorns caprice, and whim, amusive toys, And trifles vain, th' unprofitable gawds Which catch the light and airy mind of Youth, Or vacant Pleasure! Hail again ye Bards! Nor only ye of Greece and Rome, who first Stole from the croud profane my chastened thoughts, And as I gazed upon your page, inspired The holy frenzy of ambitious love, Aiming with ardent, but successless toil, To emulate your beauties! Ye too hail Ye sons of Britain! Masters of the song! Thou AKENSIDE, late wept by every Muse, Whose skilful hand unlock'd the secret source Of mental pleasure, founded in the new, The graceful, and sublime! Nor blind to worth, Tho still upon this wave-worn shore it stand Of troublous life, by envy's blasts assail'd Be thou ungreeted, ARMSTRONG, in my verse, Thou Parent of the Prophylactic Lay! Nor MASON, thou, whose polisht taste instructs To form the English Garden, mingling art With rural wildness, and simplicity! Nor BEATTIE, Friend of Truth, whose Gothic harp As if from magic touch, emit such tones, That e'en Apollo might his lyre forget, And wonder at the harmony; while pleased, In Edwin's ripening Genius, we behold The progress of thy own! Hail too ye Friends Of Nature, and the Muse, of soul refined, Of judgment unimpair'd, by slavish Art Unmanacled, who feeling, dare confess The pleasure which Ye feel! who mid the scenes Of calm retirement, from the genuine cup Nectareous, virtue-crown'd, drink true delight! While the mad riotous crew at distance heard, Disturb not your pure ears, nor aught inspire But pity and contempt? To you alone These Bards have sung, to you alone I sing.

O LET me mingle with the hallowed band, By you exalted! Let me scorn with you, The base, luxurious, dissipated Great; Who to the yoke of every foreign vice Bow down the neck disgraceful, and retain Only the name of Britons. Strangers They To every wish, each thought of nobler kind, Absorb'd in selfish joys, of public good, Of private virtue, heedless. Skill'd to game, To waste their trifling hours beneath the shade Of indolence, to steer the fragile bark O'er the smooth wave of folly. They applaud What taste condemns; their highest excellence, To deck with richest offerings the vain shrine Of those Musicians, who distort the most The native elegance, and most pollute Each charm of Melody, or those who urge The human voice divine to heights which well Madness might emulate: While JACKSON'S strains Breathing in every note the soul of love, Of passion, feeling, sense, and sentiment, Flow unrewarded; save that Nature stands Listening, and drinks in every thrilling sound. Delicious, but unprofitable meed Of elevated Genius! Fond of shew, Of pompous scenes, of barren novelties, Of tortured incidents, and poor finesse, Filch'd from the Gallic, or Italian stage, They relish not, while they pretend t' admire Our Shakespeare's matchless energy. The voice Of wisdom they despise; the sacred lyre They trample in the dust; a catch, a glee, A song obscene, a libel, which destroys Some good man's peace of mind, and blasts his fame; Strikes their weak souls with rapture. Wedded love They slout to scorn; posterity with them Is lighter than a shade; a rapid whirl Of vice fantastic hurries on their lives; And e'en the Flatterer whom they feed, would blush To praise their memory. Is this the Race, O Britain, Nurse sublime of Heroes old, Of Patriots, Sages, who thy state have raised To it's all-envied height! Is this the Race Destined to guide thy counsels? form thy laws? Croud thy once-awful Senate? Against these, Must public spirit idly strain the nerve? To these, must worth, and modest merit yield? The reptile spawn of insignificance, Corruption-foster'd? Then farewell to all Thy boasted glories! Stile thyself no more The Queen of Nations; levell'd with the mean And undistinguish'd kingdoms of the Earth. Thou hast been free! The Aera will arrive; Thou shalt be free no more! O'er folly, vice, Aristrocratic faction shall usurp, Or bold, and enterprising Monarchy With justice claim dominion. 'Tis most fit. A mid th' extensive records of mankind, It ne'er was found, that freedom could survive Where honour dwelt not; where with careless eye, Or, but intent on pleasure, Luxury sat And view'd her chain, unmoved, where love of fame, Where the keen hopes of future praise, no more Awoke the generous deed, the grateful praise, Paid by posterity to liberal souls, Who plan the good of ages. Yet, at once Quit not this Isle O Virtue! In the scenes, The lower scenes of action, linger still. Far from the plague-struck Capital, inspire The honest individual; in his soul Cherish the warm affections; let him feel The joys of unpolluted love, and think His offspring worth his care! Still may'st Thou walk On Isca's banks where thro the blooming vale It's lucid stream meanders, and receive The Orisons, which there thy Votaries pour From hearts unconscious of deceit, untaught The false refinements of superior life! Blest by the Muse, in nuptial friendship, blest, Forbid th' external sight of things, within Illumed by goodness, and the beams serene Which taste, which wisdom, and contentment shed, May BLACKLOCK still enfold thee? May'st Thou dwell From pride far distant, from the tyrant sway, And noon-tide glare of vanity, with Him, And his Compatriots! Drop th' expressive tear O'er GREGORYS' tomb; in whom alive, combined All, that the sapient head, or feeling heart, Proclaim; and admiration, and esteem, And reverence, move! Then cast thy eyes around, And own Thou ne'er beheld'st a soil more pure! A soil, where manly parts, and sense acute Spontaneous grow, and every female grace Adorns with innocence and chaste reserve The Matron's bosom. Spite of Southern pride, The rancorous lye, or partial ridicule, It's Sons and Daughters perfect in their kind. In bravery, worth unquestion'd, strength of soul, In modest tenderness, domestic charms, Tho equall'd, ne'er surpast. Thus may'st Thou still Preserve a Few from the contagious air Which luxury breathes! A remnant whence to learn What Britons erst have been! Preserve them Heaven! And when they cast the page of flattery by, Let them with kindred warmth these notes approve, And say, The Strains are our's, for Us attuned, And for the sake of Children yet unborn.