Classic Poem

On the Death of my dear Mother .

H AIL ! to thy powers — O Solitude!
Thy brumal gale, thy tempest rude,
Attune the pensive mind;
The awful blast, that howls along,
Gives energy to plaintive song,
The song — to grief assign'd.

Pour on ye thick descending rains,
Quick deluge all the neighb'ring plains,
Accordant to my woe;
My tears shall swell the devious tide,
As, rushing down the mountain's side
It seeks the stream below.

Give me the wild tremendous roar
Of billows dashing 'gainst he shore
When midnight horrors reign;
When low-brow'd rocks, and caverns, round,
Re-bellow to the fearful sound,
Loud issuing from the main:

Then, seated in some lonely tow'r —
I'll hail the solemn midnight hour,
And watch the raging deep;
While thunders roll, and lightnings glare,
And woes, — hard bordering on despair,
Conspire to — " murder sleep. "

To grief attuned, my wakeful lyre
Shall woo no vague fantastic fire,
Nor feign'd — Apollo's art:
To grief attuned — and pungent woe —
My numbers wild, and sad, and slow —
Shall touch the feeling heart.

A Friend I mourn! — indulgent heaven —
To sooth my cares, a Friend had given,
To heighten every joy;
Our love was firm, 'twas pure, refined;
Deep centred in the heart, and mind,
It knew no gross alloy.

Snatch'd, in a moment , from my eyes!
The Spirit sought its kindred skies —
And dropp'd its mass of clay!
High soaring thro' the fields of light, —
The vision mock'd my wilder'd sight
Wrapp'd in the blaze of day!