Classic Poem

Up from my youth, th' oppress'd may say,
Have I been nurs'd in tears;
My griefs were constant as the day,
And tedious as the years.

Up from my youth I bore the rage
Of all the sons of strife;
Oft they assail'd my riper age,
But not destroy'd my life.

Their cruel plough had torn my flesh
With furrows long and deep;
Hourly they vex'd my wounds afresh,
Nor let my sorrows sleep.

How was their insolence surpris'd,
To hear his thunders roll!
And all my base oppressors seiz'd
With horror to the soul!

Thus shall the men, who hate the saints,
Be blasted from the sky;
Their glory fades, their courage faints,
And all their projects die.

What though they flourish tall and fair,
They have no root beneath;
Their growth shall perish in despair,
And lie despis'd in death.

So corn, that on the house-top stands,
No hope of harvest gives;
The reaper ne'er shall fill his hands,
Nor binder fold the sheaves:

It springs and withers on the place;
No traveller bestows
A word of blessing on the grass,
Nor minds it as he goes.