Classic Poem

O FRIEND ! though silent thus thy tongue remains,
I read inquiry in thy anxious eye,
Why my pale cheek the frequent tear distains?
Why from my bosom bursts the frequent sigh?

Long from these scenes detain'd in distant fields,
My mournful tale perchance escap'd thy ear:
Fresh grief to me the repetition yields;
Thy kind attention gives thee right to hear!

Foe to the world's pursuit of wealth and fame,
Thy Theron early from the world retir'd,
Left to the busy throng each boasted aim,
Nor aught, save peace in solitude, desir'd.

A few choice volumes there could oft engage,
A few choice friends there oft amus'd the day;
There his lov'd parents' slow-declining age,
Life's calm unvaried evening, wore away.

Foe to the futile manners of the proud,
He chose an humble virgin for his own;
A form with Nature's fairest gifts endow'd,
And pure as vernal blossoms newly blown:

Her hand she gave, and with it gave a heart
By love engag'd, with gratitude impress'd,
Free without folly, prudent without art,
With wit accomplish'd, and with virtue bless'd.

Swift pass'd the hours; alas, to pass no more!
Flown like the light clouds of a summer's day!
One beauteous pledge the beauteous consort bore;
The fatal gift forbad the giver's stay.

Ere twice the sun perform'd his annual round,
In one sad spot where kindred ashes lie,
O'er wife, and child, and parents, clos'd the ground;
The final home of man ordain'd to die!

O cease at length, obtrusive Memory! cease,
Nor in my view the wretched hours retain,
That saw Disease on her dear life increase,
And Med'cine's lenient arts essay'd in vain.

O the dread scene! (in misery how sublime!)
Of Love's vain prayers to stay her fleeting breath!
Suspense, that restless watch'd the flight of Time,
And helpless dumb Despair, awaiting Death!

O the dread scene!—'Tis agony to tell,
How o'er the couch of pain declin'd my head;
And took from dying lips the long farewell,
The last, last parting, ere her spirit fled.

‘Restore her, Heaven! as from the grave retrieve—
In each calm moment all things else resign'd,
Her looks, her language, show how hard to leave
The lov'd companion she must leave behind.

‘Restore her, Heaven! for once in mercy spare—
Thus Love's vain prayer in anguish interpos'd:
And soon Suspense gave place to dumb Despair,
And o'er the past, Death's sable curtain clos'd—

In silence clos'd—My thoughts rov'd frantic round,
No hope, no wish, beneath the Sun remain'd;
Earth, air, and skies, one dismal waste I found,
One pale, dead, dreary blank, with horror stain'd.

O lovely flower, too fair for this rude clime!
O lovely morn, too prodigal of light!
O transient beauties, blasted in their prime!
O transient glories, sunk in sudden night!

Sweet Excellence, by all who knew thee mourn'd!
Where is that form, that mind, my soul admir'd;
That form, with every pleasing charm adorn'd;
That mind, with every gentle thought inspir'd?

The face with rapture view'd, I view no more;
The voice with rapture heard, no more I hear;
Yet the lov'd features Memory's eyes explore;
Yet the lov'd accents fall on Memory's ear.

Ah sad, sad change! (sad source of daily pain)
That sense of loss ineffable renews;
While my rack'd bosom heaves the sigh in vain,
While my pale cheek the tear in vain bedews.

Still o'er the grave that holds the dear remains,
The mouldering veil her spirit left below,
Fond Fancy dwells, and pours funereal strains,
The soul-dissolving melody of woe.

Nor mine alone to bear this painful doom,
Nor she alone the tear of Song obtains;
The Muse of Blagdon, o'er Constantia's tomb,
In all the eloquence of grief complains.

My friend's fair hope, like mine, so lately gain'd;
His heart, like mine, in its true partner bless'd;
Both from one cause the same distress sustain'd,
The same sad hours beheld us both distress'd.

O human life! how mutable, how vain!
How thy wide sorrows circumscribe thy joy—
A sunny island in a stormy main,
A spot of azure in a cloudy sky!

All-gracious Heaven! since man, infatuate man,
Rests in thy works, too negligent of thee;
Lays for himself on earth his little plan,
Dreads not, or distant views mortality;

'Tis but to wake to nobler thought the soul,
To rouse us lingering on earth's flowery plain,
To Virtue's path our wanderings to control,
Affliction frowning comes, thy minister of pain!