Classic Poem

Ah! poor Matilda, cou'd thy fate,
But reach the fickle fair,
Whom transient pomp and fortune wait,
Mere phantoms, light as air.

Perhaps a tear they'd willing pay
Of pity, ere they doom'd
Too harsh a sentence on thy clay,
For sweeter flow'r ne'er bloom'd.

The fame of fair Matilda's charms
The lofty dome has rung;
And while they courted to their arms,
Thy praise has nobles sung.

By flatt'ry lull'd, by peers caress'd
How swift the minutes flew;
In various forms was pleasure dress'd,
To wait a while on you.

But scarce those blooming charms enjoy'd,
Too soon Matilda won;
The banquet o'er, the rake is cloy'd,
Reflection charms has none.

Now cast aside a loathsome weed,
To walk the dreary street;
From whence the curse, one fatal deed,
Soon ev'ry other greet.

The dazzling jewels sav'd in pow'r,
For virtue's price—how small—
Serves but to suffice for an hour
To succour Nature's call.

The down forsakes her tender limbs,
Matilda's once lov'd guest;
The chilling blast her bright eyes dims,
The loves shone once confest.

The driven snows, the falling rains.
And winter's piercing winds,
Matilda feels, nor once complains,
For friends are fled, she finds.

Those friends whom once her gen'rous heart,
For choicest viands spreads;
Now bids the wand'ring wretch depart,
Nor grants one night a bed.

Expos'd to ev'ry ruffian's will,
To ev'ry brute's embrace,
Diseas'd, possess'd with ev'ry ill,
Was poor Matilda's case!

She sought to find the fad retreat
An empty room cou'd give;
Without a friend—Oh! hard to speak,
To bid the mourner live.

A bed of straw Matilda found,
Then laid her down and sigh'd;
And while her tears bedew'd the ground,
“My God!” she said, and died.

Too true's the tale the Muse has told,
Her name she must forbear;
And while her fate's by all condol'd,
Be warn'd by her, ye fair!