Classic Poem

" O BITTER change! now boys my groans deride,
The wretched object of their scorn and pride;
Whose fathers I unworthy held to keep,
With less contemned dogs, my flocks of sheep.
How could their youth to my advantage turn,
Or elder age with weak'ning vices worn?
Who, pale with famine, to the desert fled,
On roots of juniper and mallows fed;
Whom men from their society exclude,
Detested, and like thieves with cries pursu'd;
Conceal'd in hollow rocks, in gloomy caves,
And cliffs deep vaulted by the fretting waves;
Among the bushes they like asses bray'd,
And in the brakes their conventicles made.
The sons of idiots, of ignoble birth,
Contaminate, and viler than the earth.
Yet now am I obnoxious to their wrongs,
A bye-word, and the subject of their songs.
Who exercise their tongues in my disgrace,
Abhor my paths, and spit upon my face.
They, ever since the enrag'd Omnipotent
Dissolv'd my sinews, and my bow unbent,
Like head-strong horses, 'twixt their teeth have ta'en
The master'd bridle, and contemn'd the rein.
Lo, boys against me rise, and strow my way
With snares; then watch the cruel traps they lay;
Who now my paths pervert, their hate extend
To multiply his woes that hath no friend.
As seas against the shore's strong rampires stretch
Their batt'ring waves, and force a dreadful breach,
With equal fury they upon me roll,
Ev'n to the desolation of my soul,
Besieging terrors storm-like roar aloud,
Pursue, and chase me like an empty cloud.
O how my soul is pour'd upon the ground!
Full-grown affliction hath a subject found.
Torments by night my wasted marrow boil,
My pulses labour with unequal toil.
My sores pollute my garments; plagues infest
My poison'd skin, and like a coat invest.
O I am dust and ashes! Lord, Thou hast
Down in the dirt the broken-hearted cast.
Thy ears the incense of my pray'rs reject,
No tears nor vows can alter Thy neglect.
Ah! hast Thou lost Thy mercy! Wilt Thou fight
Against a worm, and in his groans delight!
Thou sett'st me on the winds, with ev'ry blast
Toss'd to and fro, while I to nothing waste.
I see my death approach; I to the womb
Of earth am call'd, of all the gen'ral tomb.
Thou never wilt the dead to life restore,
Though here in sorrow they Thy grace implore.
How oft have I for those that suffer'd wept!
Afflicted for the poor, when others slept!
Yet when I look'd for joy, for cheerful light,
Then grief fell on, and shades more black than night.
My tortur'd bowels found no hour of rest,
By troops of sudden miseries opprest.
Unknown to-day, I mourn'd; my clamours tare
The ear's soft labyrinth, and cleft the air.
The hissing dragon and the screeching owl
Became companions to my pensive soul;
My flesh is cover'd with a veil of jet,
And all my bones consume with burning heat.
My harp her mournful strains in sorrow steeps,
My organ sighs sad airs, as one that weeps. "