Classic Poem

Distressful gift! this Book receives
Upon its melancholy leaves,
This poor ill-fated Book:
I wrote, and when I reached the end
Started to think that thou, my Friend,
Upon the words which I had penned,
Must never, never look.

Alas, alas, it is a Tale
Of Thee thyself; fond heart and frail!
The sadly-tuneful line
The written words that seem to throng
The dismal page, the sound, the song,
The murmur all to thee belong,
Too surely they are thine.

And so I write what neither Thou
Must look upon, nor others now,
Their tears would flow too fast;
Some solace thus I strive to gain,
Making a kind of secret chain,
If so I may, betwixt us twain
In memory of the past.

Oft have I handled, often eyed,
This volume with delight and pride,
The written page and white;
Oft have I turned them o'er and o'er,
One after one and score by score,
All filled or to be filled with store
Of verse for his delight.

He framed the Book which now I see,
This book that rests upon my knee,
He framed with dear intent;
To travel with him night and day,
And in his private hearing say
Refreshing things, whatever way
His weary Vessel went.

And now--upon the written leaf
With heart oppressed by pain and grief
I look, but, gracious God,
Oh grant that I may never find
Worse matter or a heavier mind,
Grant this, and let me be resigned
Beneath thy chastening rod.