Classic Poem

Phoebus has thrice his Yearly Circuit run,
The Winter's over, and the Summer's done;
Since that bright Day on which our hands were join'd,
And to Philander I my All resign'd.

Thrice in my Womb I've found the pleasing Strife,
In the first Struggles of my Infants Life:
But O how soon by Heaven I'm call'd to mourn,
While from my Womb a lifeless Babe is torn?
Born to the Grave 'ere it had seen the Light,
Or with one Smile had cheer'd my longing Sight.

Again in Travail-Pains my Nerves are wreck'd,
My Eye-balls start, my Heart-strings almost crack'd;
Now I forget my Pains, and now I press
Philander's Image to my panting Breast.
Ten Days I hold him in my joyful Arms,
And feast my Eyes upon his Infant Charms.
But then the King of Terrors does advance
To pierce it's Bosom with his Iron Lance.
It's Soul releas'd, upward it takes it's Flight,
Oh never more below to bless my Sight!
Farewell sweet Babes I hope to meet above,
And there with you Sing the Redeemer's Love.

And now O gracious Saviour lend thine Ear,
To this my earnest Cry and humble Prayer,
That when the Hour arrives with painful Throws,
Which shall my Burden to the World disclose;
I may Deliverance have, and joy to see
A living Child, to Dedicate to Thee.