Classic Poem

Female's Lamentations, The; or, The Village in Mourning

Once more I visited the place
Where first I drew my breath;
But Oh! what desolations made
By that grim Monster Death!

There hardly was a Building here,
But some kind friend was gone;
And former Joys are turn'd to pain,
When this is thought upon.

I went and view'd that empty House
Where my late Brother dwelt;
A Wife and Off-spring he has left,
Oh! the keen grief I felt!

And walking on, I cast a look
Upon that empty Hall;
Those Friends that once liv'd there are dead,
'Tis all in vain to call.

And did I see that Mansion, where
His Honour once did dwell?
Ye poor, that did receive his gifts,
'Tis vain your wants to tell.

For now he slumbers in the dust,
Regardless of your cry;
Each empty Room bespeaks your loss,
Those Gardens ruin'd lay.

Oh! where is now that pleasure which
Once sparkled in each Face?
The Widow's Heart sure sung for Joy,
How chearful was that place!

The Mother here her Garments shew'd,
The Father told the Son;
His Honour did their Schooling pay,
What good his Spouse has done!

But now the Village seems to mourn,
And that remark is just;
Oh! put no confidence in Man,
Do not in Princes trust.

I only had to cross the Green,
Where once my Parents liv'd;
The Owner of that Dwelling now
Did me refreshment give.

I in the Garden saw the Trees
My own dear Brother bought;
And tho' they live, yet he is dead,
How mournful was the thought!

Here is the Orchard, where I, with
My Sister oft did walk;
With pleasure we the Grass did tread,
Or, sit us down to talk.

'Twas all in vain to look around,
Alas! she was not there;
Oh! Death has hid her from my sight,
She does not charm my ear.

I went and view'd that Room once more,
Where my dear Parent lay;
When Death with solemn tidings came
To take her Life away.

Here did I see her Jaw-bone fall,
And then her Eye-strings brake;
And just before I thought she strove
These Words to me to speak.

“Oh, Hannah! put your trust in God;”
And could she then foresee
The train of Troubles that did come
Upon unhappy me.

What could a dying Mother say
More to a Daughter dear,
Than bid her put her trust in God,
A Friend that's ever near?

Again I was in that doleful Room,
Where thus to me 'twas said,
Your Father you'll alive not see,—
I cry'd What! is he dead?

As if in frenzy, scarce believ'd
What they to me did say;
But, Oh! indeed he dropt down dead,
'Twas on a Market Day.

Why do I wound my heart afresh?
These Sorrows are too keen:
Then stop, my Muse, and turn, my Thoughts,
Unto a pleasing theme.

For all that ever dy'd in Christ
Shall meet him in the Air;
So grand, so sweet, so fine a sight!
I hope I shall be there.

Oh! talk not of a Birth-day Night,
Nor Coronation Day;
Compar'd, they lose their Beauties all,
When Saints shall come away.

With Palms of Vict'ry in their Hands,
And Crowns upon each Head;
And loud Hosannas will proclaim,
His praise that once was dead.

Rejoice, ye Saints, he lives anew,
Your Judge is now your King;
Sweet Hallelujahs all will cry,
And endless Praises sing.English