Classic Poem

Nor cou'd retirement purchase peaceful rest,
The captive bird my fancy still possest.
I sat me down in pensive mood to trace
The pangs attendant on the fetter'd raçe;
Whilst thoughts pathetic struck my melting soul,
My roving fancy rang'd without controul.
I thousands first of nature's children saw,
Tho' nature's sons, depriv'd of nature's law:
Tho' first it struck, I cou'd no further go,
To see such numbers in the gulf of woe.

One single captive in his cell I threw,
And from his twilight thus his picture drew.
Long expectation had his body worn,
With hope defer'd his aching heart was torn;
A pallid langour had his face o'er cast,
For thrice ten years ne'er felt the western blast.
No sun—no moon—to cheer his troubl'd heart;
No friend—no kinsman—comfort to impart.
No children—oh! that name my heart-strings tore,
Nature recoil'd, and bade me that give o'er.

On mother earth a scanty litter spread,
Had serv'd alternately for chair and bed.
A dismal calendar of sticks were plac'd
Close by his head, where all his days were trac'd,
A sad epitome!—but wanted more,
Which he was adding to affliction's store.
When from his grate I stop'd the twink'ling gleam,
He wishful look'd, and mourn'd the absent beam.
His chains harsh rattl'd as he turn'd him round,
With throbbing sighs the jarring noise he drown'd.
Into his soul the iron enter'd deep,
Mine was the portrait—and 'twas mine to weep.