Classic Poem

How hard, Lorenzo, is the boon you ask,
And how unequal I to such a task?
I, whose weak muse, borne down with weight of years,
O'er common griefs might shed some tender tears,
But finds her powers of lamentation fail,
And sinks and sickens at thy doleful tale?

A Mother! (ah, the venerable name,
Which my young lips were never taught to frame,)
She, whose warm bowels form'd thy infant span,
Whose tenderest watchings nurs'd thee up to man,
She, earthly image of the highest love,
Which ev'n the yearnings of a God could move!

A Brother, too! the next congenial tie
Of strongest force in nature's symmetry!
Thy partner thro' a course of prattling years,
In all youth's fondnesses, and all its fears!
Both in a moment robb'd of vital breath,
And quick and sudden hurry'd into death!
No hasty fever, no slow pac'd decay,
To snatch the young, or wear the old away;
The humble cot, which, for convenience rear'd,
Harbour'd no mischief, and no danger fear'd,
Where, by the cheerful fire in peace secure,
They now had spent the pleasant evening hour,
Crush'd all at once by one stupendous shock
Of tumbling rubbish from th' impending rock!
No sturdy pillars to support the weight
Of such a burthen, thrown from such a height;
The unsuspecting victims, half undrest,
In preparation for a sweet night's rest;
No boding omen heard, no warning giv'n,
No time to lift their souls and eyes to heav'n;
Bury'd beneath th' enormous mass all round,
And breathing, tomb'd in dust above the ground;
Their shatter'd limbs all into atoms crash'd,
And bones and bowels to one chaos dash'd!

But why attempt description? words are vain!
The dreadful ruin mocks my languid strain —
And does my friend need counsel how to bear
This wound so piercing — stroke indeed severe;
Then think on what thy hoary sire must feel,
(For sure thy sire had not a heart of steel)
When by next dawn return'd from distant toil,
In hopes of welcome from thy mother's smile,
He saw, and star'd, and gaz'd at this and that,
And hop'd, and fear'd, and wish'd he knew not what?
'Till, like a voice, he heard from menial maid,
With wife and son in dire sepulchre laid,
Who ten long hours had groan'd an age of pain,
And just expiring, breath'd the how and when.
Now view him in a gulph of horror cast,
His heart-strings breaking, and his eyes aghast,
Like pictur'd patience, all benumb'd he stands,
And tries to lift, but drops his trembling hands;
No groan his heart emits, his eye no tear —
Good heaven! what more can mortals suffer here?

'Tis this, you say, that aggravates the smart,
'Tis this that doubly rends the filial heart.
True, unfledg'd sufferer, thou hast much to do,
To act the Son , aud shine the Christian too:
Insensible to this what heart can be,
Not form'd of marble, or hewn out of tree?
Lorenzo's heart, tho' cut, must not repine
At what, it knows, comes from a hand divine;
But strive in due submission to comply,
Nor boldly dare to guess the reason why.
The philosophic sage, from self's proud school,
May act, or feign to act, th' heroic fool:
At nature's feelings may pretend to mock,
And wisely sullen stand th' appalling shock.
The heav'n-taught Christian may, and must do more,
May grieve from nature, must from grace adore;
Adore the love of ev'n a chast'ning God,
And kiss the gracious hand that wields the rod.