Genesis Iii. 24. Poem by Mary Anne Browne

ALAS! and can the tale be true!
Could they to whom was given
All blessing, like the freshening dew,
All mercies straight from heaven;
Could these be false? could these be frail?
Could these rebellious fall?
Could their obedience ever fail
To Him who gave them all?

Oh wherefore, whilst they yet might stay,
Ere yet their doom was sealed,
Ere angels kept the guarded way,
Was not their misery healed?
Was there not life's immortal tree,
Was not its fruitage fair,
And might not they immortal be,
Only by tasting there?

Oh! who could doubt that ancient tale,
Whilst daily we behold
Men in their faith and fervour fail—
Hearts in their trust grow cold.
Too surely that first guilty pair
Sin's deep foundations built;
Too surely in our hearts we bear
The record of their guilt.

Alas! how many dare to sin
'Gainst God's high majesty,
Nor strive a healing balm to win,
From his life-giving tree.
How stand our passions in the way,
As hot and burning brands;
But oh ! not lit 'midst heaven's pure day,
Nor held by angel hands.

Oh Father! these our fiery swords,
Against ourselves are turned,
They stand 'twixt us and thy pure words,
Aye, near heaven's gate have burned:
From demon hands the weapons wrench,
That now in fear we see,
Their lightning flames subdue and quench,
And let us pass to Thee!