Classic Poem

Our small'st Misfortunes scarce could reach thy Ear,
But made thee give in Alms a Tear;
And when our Hearts breath'd their regret in sighs,
As a just Tribute to their Miseries,
Thine with their mournful Airs did symbolize.
Like throngs of sighs did from its Fibres crowd,
And told thy Grief for our each Grief aloud:
Such is the secret Sympathy
We may betwixt two neighb'ring Lutes descry,
If either by unskilful hand too rudely bent
Its soft Complaint in pensive murmurs vent,
As if it did that Injury resent:
Untoucht the other strait returns the Moan,
And gives an Eccho to each Groan.
From its sweet Bowels a sad Note's convey'd,
Like those which to condole are made,
As if its Bowels too a kind Compassion had.