Classic Poem

Accept, dear———, of a father's strain,
To soothe a daughter's heart-corroding pain.
Thy Charlie gone!—Poor, sweet, engaging child,
In looks so charming, and in mind so mild.
The last of nine thy tender care had rear'd,
And well deserving of thy fond regard,
Pull'd from this world in dawn of youthful years,
From all thy prospects, and from all thy fears;
Not by the quick-paced march of fever's rage,
Nor childish malady, of childish age,
Chin-cough, and measles, ev'n the frightful power
Of loathsome small-pox, all got safely o'er;
But slow and lingering, under many a groan
Of tortured weeks and months, from cruel stone,
Beyond the reach of medicinal cure,
Beyond the strength of childhood to endure;
With manhood's agonies, poor infant tern,
With manhood's courage, by poor infant born;
In writhing posture clinging round thy knee,
And looking up with wistful eyes to thee,
Now wishing Death to ease his shatter'd frame,
Now lisping out, for help, his Saviour's name,
His face convulsed, his once bright eyes aghast,
And pained, yet patient, breathing out—his last!
Distressful scene! to a fond mother's breast,
'Bove what in saddest lays can be exprest!

Yet think, my dear, how different is this blow
From what thou felt not twenty months ago:
Two blooming youths, their drooping father's prop,
Their brethren's favourites, and their mother's hope,
All of a sudden driv'n from peaceful home
To underly the law's severest doom,
By Falsehood charg'd, by Malice quick pursu'd,
Their near relations thirsting for their blood,
One dragg'd to jail, the other forc'd to fly,
Not stung by guilt, but seeking remedy:
Thy anxious heart uncertain of their fate,
And bleeding o'er their miserable state,
'Twixt fears and hopes nine long weeks on the rack—
Fears for their loss and hopes to get them back—
Thy parents sunk in unavailing grief,
Thy husband wand'ring to procure relief,
And thou alone within thy walls to mourn,
Once happy there, now weeping and forlorn;
No neighbour near vouchsafing to condole,
In soft compassion with thy wounded soul,
But standing off, all Christian ties forgot,
And shunning, like the plague, the wretched cot!

Not so this present cause of second woe—
No stroke from hellish or from human foe,
But gentle touch of Heavenly Father's rod,
The gracious pleasure of a gracious God,
Calling thy Charlie to more lasting bliss
In other worlds than could be found in this,
Through rugged paths, but such as Heav'n thought best,
To lead the sufferer to his bed of rest;
Thy neighbours crowding now about thy door
And showing what they had not shown before,
Their flint of soul, or soften'd or subdued
By grace or guilt, to more becoming mood.
Thy mother using all love's arts to drown
Thy sorrows in the memory of her own;
Thy father acting, with scarce-smother'd tear,
His last good office o'er a grandchild's bier;
Thy husband, with his yet remaining seven,
Conveying to the grave a guest for heaven;
Sweet balsam this to mollify the smart,
And still the throbbings of a mother's heart!

Remember, too, how lively were thy joys
To clasp again thy persecuted boys,
When Heav'n and Law had justified their cause,
And sent them home with honour and applause,
In spite of all that malice could devise
To drive and keep them from thy longing eyes;
More joy in this to find them thus reliev'd,
Than if thou ne'er hadst for their absence griev'd:
And such, in God's good time, thy joy shall be
To find this absent child restor'd to thee,
And thee again to him, no more to part—
No separation more to thrill the heart.

Thy heart, poor———! Poor has been thy life
From new-born infant up to married wife,
Ere yet three suns had warm'd thy tender form,
Ere yet thy mother had got o'er her storm,
A band of armed ruffians round the bed
Where child and mother were together laid,
Thy father seized in silent hour of night,
Thy mother trembling and half-kill'd with fright,
And thou, sweet babe, with many a whimpering cry,
Uncared for, and neglected, forced to lie;
Thy maiden years with weakness often vext,
Thy married state with toils and cares perplext,
Yet cheerful under all and still content,
Without envying, and without complaint,
Resigned to God, and pleased with all His ways;
'Tis He sustains thee—His be all the praise.

O! may we all at last be called to meet
In heavenly mansions at our Saviour's feet,
Thyself, thy husband, parents, boys, and all,
With church trumphant at th' enliv'ning call,
Purg'd from the stains and sorrows of this earth,
And by grace fitted for celestial mirth,
Where no insulting foe can dash our joy,
No rotten-hearted friend our peace annoy;
But all with love and harmony abound,
Combining all in one melodious sound
Of tuneful song, with raptures to adore
The great Preparer of eternal store,
Through endless ages of—one evermore!

Take this and keep it, till gray hairs come on—
'Twill mind thee of thy father when he's gone.