Classic Poem

WHO DIED OF THE SMALL POX .

'Twas winter, and the sickly sun was low,
Thro' yonder fields I took my lonely way;
Musing on many a gloomy scene of woe,
As oft I wont in evening calm to stray.

With languid step, advancing I perceiv'd
A passenger of aspect pale and wan;
With frequent sighs his labouring bosom heav'd,
And down his cheek the briny torrent ran.

" What ails thee, friend? " I ask'd in pitying tone
Of sympathetic mood to speak relief
" Say, what's the cause that makes thee thus to moan,
And why thy visage pictur'd thus with grief? "

" Shall I not moan? " the stranger sad reply'd,
" And thus in sighs my inward grief express?
How can my troubled heart its sorrows hide?
My melting soul conceal its deep distress?

" Last week a darling brother was my boast,
The last born product of my mother's womb;
This darling brother t'other day I lost,
To day I laid him in the silent tomb.

" Meek his deportment, and his manners mild,
In all his carriage undisguis'd and plain;
As virgin chaste, and soft as new born child,
Comely his features, and his look serene.

" Steady in principle, and in practice pure,
With modesty and manly sense endued;
His honest heart from vanity secure,
The paths of vice with just abhorrence view'd.

" Not poorly mean, nor anxious to be great,
His mind tho' lofty, and his genius bright;
Yet pleas'd and happy in his humble state,
And Music, heavenly gift, his dear delight!

" How gracefully, amidst th' applauding ring,
His well taught fingers mov'd the lyre along;
Whether to mirth he briskly struck the string,
Or on soft psalt'ry touch'd the sacred song!

" Oft have I seen, when jocund friends were met,
In summer's evenings or by winter's fire;
The listening choir in emulation set!
What tongue should most th' enchanting youth admire

" But now no more his notes shall charm the fair,
No more his Numbers soothe th' attentive Swain,
With Tullochgorum's dance-inspiring air,
Or Roslin-castle's sweet, but solemn strain.

" In early dawn of merit and of fame,
To wish'd-for health, from sickness just restor'd;
The loathsome pustules seiz'd his tender frame,
And sudden gave the stroke that's now deplor'd!

" 'Tis this that grieves me, — this the loss I mourn,
Excuse a sorrowing brother's heavy tale;
No more shall he to earth and me return,
Nor sighs, nor tears, nor love, can now prevail! "

He stopt, the tears again began to flow,
And sigh on sigh burst from his throbbing breast;
My feeling heart soon catch'd the poor man's woe,
And soon my eye the rising tear confest.

" Dear youth, " I cry'd, " whom heav'n has call'd away,
'Midst early innocence from this vain stage;
Safe now, we hope, in fields of endless day,
Above the follies of a sinful age!

" In these bright regions fill'd with many a Saint,
Sweet be thy rest, and blest thy wakening be!
And may kind Heav'n at last in mercy grant
A happy meeting to thy friends and thee! "