Classic Poem

O! I am sick of life, nor will control
My passion, but in bitterness of soul
Thus tear the air; what should Thy wrath incense
To punish him who knows not his offence?
Ah! dost Thou in oppression take delight?
Wilt Thou Thy servant fold in shades of night,
And smile on wicked counsels? dost Thou see
With eyes of flesh? is truth conceal'd from Thee?
What! are Thy days as frail as ours? or can
Thy years determine like the age of man?
That Thou shouldst my delinquencies exquire,
And with variety of tortures tire?
Cannot my known integrity remove
Thy cruel plagues? wilt Thou remorseless prove?
Ah! wilt Thou Thy own workmanship confound?
Shall the same hand that did create now wound?
Remember, I am built of clay, and must
Resolve to my originary dust.
Thou pour'dst me out like milk into the womb,
Like curds condens'd; and in that secret room
My limbs proportion'd, cloth'd with flesh and skin,
With bones and sinews fortified within.
The life Thou gav'st Thou hast with plenty fed,
Long cherish'd, and through dangers safely led.
All this is buried in Thy breast; and yet
I know Thou canst not Thy old love forget.
Thou, if I err, observ'st me with stern eyes;
Nor will the plea of ignorance suffice.
Woe unto me should sin my soul infect,
Who dare not now, though innocent, erect
My downcast looks, which clouds of shame enfold.
Great God, my growing miseries behold!
Thou like a lion hunt'st me, wounds on wounds
Thy hands inflict, Thy fury knows no bounds.
Against me all Thy plagues embattled are,
Subdu'd with changes of internal war.
Why didst Thou draw me from my mother's womb?
Would I from thence had slipp'd into my tomb
Before the eye of man my face had seen,
And mix'd with dust, as I had never been!
O! since I have so short a time to live,
A little ease to these my torments give,
Before I go where all in silence mourn,
From whose dark shores no travellers return;
A land where death, confusion, endless night,
And horror reign, where darkness is their light. "