Classic Poem

A BALLAD .

" Where is my Son? — he's lost at last —
(A frantic mother cries)
" That dang'rous wood he never pass'd —
" I fear my Henry dies.

" The thunder roars — the lightning's glare!
" Ah who can — who can tell —
" But Heaven, perhaps, has heard his pray'r,
" And sooth'd his last farewell? "

Swift from the cot, a beauteous maid
In all the tempest flew,
Nor e'er one timid fear dismay'd
A heart so firm and true!

And swiftly o'er the dreary waste,
Which clear the lightning shew'd,
And o'er the narrow plank in haste,
She took her fearless road:

Nor stopp'd she for the rugged hill,
Nor mark'd the irksome briar,
For sharper were the terrors still
Affection did inspire!

An eager look around she threw —
Ah me! — a groan she heard!
The voice, alas, too well she knew —
Poor Henry 's form appear'd!

Fainting and cold — for Death was near —
His languid figure lay:
Those that can find Compassion's tear
Shou'd first to Anna pay.

" Awake, " she cries, " thy true love calls —
" The wretched Anna see!
" Ah, shou'dst thou die, the tear that falls
" Will ne'er be view'd by me! "

With fervent haste, and Heav'n her guide,
The neighb'ring spring she sought,
And trembling, to his lips applied
The cordial draught she brought;

And Mercy bless'd its gentle pow'r,
With pulse of life renew'd;
And on his cheek the faded flow'r
Enraptur'd Anna view'd!

" Oh, joyful sight! my love is sav'd!
" Kind Heaven accept my praise!
" This mercy on my soul engrav'd
" Shall gild my future days. "

" Fair Anna ! 'tis thy form I know!
" Thy voice again I hear!
" A ruffian dealt the fatal blow,
" And bade me perish here!

" But Mercy sent an Angel too,
" I feel this blessed hour;
" Oh, cou'd an anxious Mother's view
" Complete its sov'reign pow'r!"

Sweet was the cordial, dear embrace!
Ah! what can wealth bestow?
Ah, what can pomp, can fancy trace,
So like to Heaven below?

Tho' still a feeble course they kept,
The lovers found their way,
And oft with joy fair Anna wept,
But still the walk was gay.

And oh! at last the ruddy morn
Had streak'd the golden sky;
They reach'd the mother's cot forlorn,
They met her sparkling eye.
But here Expression's pow'r is faint,
The meeting to declare!
Fair Sympathy its charm must paint,
And speak the transports there!

Nor cou'd the kind maternal voice
Deny a love so true —
Ah, no! it blest her Henry 's choice,
And blest his Anna 's too.