Classic Poem

Who died in Child-birth of Twins, whom she left Orphans, with four more, in the 28th year of her age.

Why sighs fond nature thro' her utmost powers?
Why hides the golden sun his beaming ray?
Why wither on their stalks the drooping flowers?
And gloomy clouds obscure the face of day?
Yes, frown ye clouds, and angry tempests roar,
For beauteous, lov'd Maria, breathes no more.

Oh! how shall words the dismal tale relate?
How paint the mournful, melancholy scene?
Tell how she met the dreadful stroke of fate,
And at the ghastly tyrant smil'd serene!
Whilst the last accents faulter'd on her tongue,
And round her couch her weeping infants hung.

Yes, lovely orphans, well you may lament —
Breathless and cold the best of mothers lies,
The blackest stroke that fortune could have sent,
To draw the streaming sorrow from your eyes!
The kind protector of your youth is gone
To distant realms, and worlds to us unknown.

And you, sweet babes, unconscious of your woe,
Who lost the best of mothers at your birth,
If heaven prolong your lives shall one day know,
That mother's great invaluable worth:
To give you life she sacrific'd her own,
And mingled with your cries her dying groans.

What pen to praise her lovely form can rise,
Adorn'd with every love attracting grace?
The brightest lustre sparkled in her eyes,
And beauty sat triumphant in her face!
Her charms in vain the muse attempts to paint,
Description fails, and eloquence is faint.

But, what's the transient flower of beauty's bloom,
To the transcending honours of her mind?
Which plant unfading trophies round her tomb,
And leave her deathless memory behind:
There white-rob'd innocence with knowledge join'd,
And every social virtue was combin'd.

Alas, how chang'd! lifeless and low she lies
Clasp'd in the frozen cold embrace of death;
Now clos'd, for ever, are those sparkling eyes!
And now, for ever stopt her fleeting breath:
In vain her blooming youth! it could not save
Her matchless worth from an untimely grave.

But cease, ye friends, your throbbing sorrows cease,
Nor let the skies resound your plaintive moan,
For to the realms of everlasting peace,
And mansions of eternal rest, she's flown;
Where copious streams of perfect pleasure roll,
And joys, unrivall'd, feast her ravish'd soul.

And you, dear part'ner of her life below,
The sharer of her pain, and of her joy,
No more indulge your heart desponding woe,
No more let plaintive grief your soul employ,
But let sublimer ardent thoughts arise,
And trace her flight thro' yon empyrean skies.

And you, fond mother of the breathless fair,
No longer weeping thus her loss deplore,
She's freed from every pain, and every care,
Above terrestial joys sublime to soar.
Oh, kindly then her helpless orphans guard,
Ye know that virtue is its own reward.

How blest, sweet innocents, in such a friend,
To teach you all the sacred ways of truth;
Long, long may heav'n her kind assistance lend,
To guide you thro' the slippery paths of youth,
With watchful care to guard your tender years,
And nurse the blossom till the fruit appears.

Then cease your grief, and imitate her worth,
Thro' all the various changing scenes of life,
That with distinguish'd lustre blazed forth,
The tender mother, and the virtuous wife:
Oh live like her whilst here below on earth,
Like her to shine illustrious after death.