Classic Poem

Regard, O God! my mournful cry,
Preserve my life, to thee I fly;
See how oppressors round me swarm!
Oh! hide me from the angry storm.

Their tongue is like a poison'd dart,
Their words, like arrows, pierce the heart;
With secret aim they wound the just,
And reckless make the deadly thrust.

They urge each other on with cheers,
And laugh to scorn the trembler's fears;
They plot the dreadful snare to lay,
“For who doth see us?”—lo! they say.