Classic Poem

INSCRIBED TO THE MEMORY OF MY MOST RESPECTED FRIEND, THE LATE MR THOMAS HART

I.

I, WHO erewhile in artless numbers sung
The Sabbath service of the simple swain,
Whence peace, content, delight for ever young,
And heavenly Hope, rose smiling in his train;
Now to the tremulous, sorrow-breathing strain,
With faltering hand attune the plaintive lyre:
How sick dejection, poverty and pain,
And weeping sympathy, in death conspire
To dash his high-form'd hopes, and quench his heavenly fire.

II.

But all conspire in vain. In this cold clime,
Though oft obscur'd the spark of grace may lie,
Surmounting all the heavy damps of time,
A blaze, at length, it mounts its native sky.
Thou, who, of old, awok'st the Bard to cry
For help, because of faithful men's decay,
O turn on me thy light-dispensing eye,
Teach, as I trace in tears the lonely way,
In faith and hope resign'd to meet my dying day.

III.

Hail January, hoar father of the year,
Deep in the north's peculiar blue enthron'd,
Thy piercing eye fill'd with a sleety tear,
Thy biting breath in cranreuch falling round;
Thy temples, bald, with leafless osiers crown'd,
Jewell'd with ice drops pure as orients rare,
Thy flowing robe of mountain mist, upbound
In radiant zone, emboss'd with frost-work fair,
Wrought rich, beyond all art, by nature's curious care.

IV.

How does the heart of buoyant youth expand,
To mark thee joyous burst upon the view,
While health and friendship, love and humour bland,
In rich luxuriance bud and bloom anew.
And thrifty housewives, with devotion due,
Their parts perform'd, their household business sped,
Blythe as the July morning breathing dew,
And as the bounding lambkins light of tread,
The blazing ingles heap, the festive tables spread.

V.

And care looks gay, and drooping toil foregoes
The accustom'd sigh, to see that cordial smile,
The greybeard grave, by thee inspired, bestows
On all his guests — and how he warms, the while.
Smooth elocution, rhetoric void of guile
From mouth to mouth around the table glows,
And pleasure's cup, pure, sparkling, smooth as oil,
By wisdom bless'd, in temperate measure flows;
And still their wit expands, and still their learning grows.

VI.

Yet there are men, and men of sterling worth,
Yea families to the God who made them dear,
For whom thy jovial step brings nothing forth,
Not even a smile their solitude to cheer;
Who, wrestling with a world to them severe,
Find all its ills in one black band combin'd —
Sickness and want, despondency and fear,
The causeless foe, the faithless friend unkind,
And last, and worst of all, perhaps a wounded mind.

VII.

But, gracious, o'er such poor desponding ones,
His skirt of love the dear Redeemer flings;
And precious are the tears, the secret groans,
Which from the heart renew'd affliction wrings.
Drink, ye who may, among the limpid springs,
Around the tents of mirth that pople clear,
But know that, under grief's expanding wings,
There are who watch beside the lonely bier,
And from the yawning tomb truth's mandates dread must hear.

VIII.

One night in sympathetic mood to spend
With such an one, in yonder cottage low,
Across the heath my steps I pensive bend,
And all your gay festivities forego.
There health was wont to shed her roseate glow,
There meek contentment show'd her placid face,
And love, the greatest gift to man below,
With prudence, wise to judge of time and place,
Presided over all with dignity and grace.

IX.

There, late at gloaming hour the ingle clear,
The well-swept floor, the frugal table spread,
The mother pleas'd, the prattling children dear,
The husband and the father's heart made glad.
Behind the door set by his weary spade,
Water to wash the children fond would bring,
And stockings clean — thus comfortable made,
Down he would sit, amid the social ring,
Ah! happier sure, by far, than either prince or king.

X.

But chang'd, alas! for late upon the hill
Loud roar'd the winds, with drenching sleet and rain,
Yet there his labour he continued still,
That so his week unbroken might remain.
And ever since perplex'd with racking pain,
And heart-consuming sickness, sad he lies;
Its skill the village, too, has tried in vain;
Unnerv'd his arm, and death-like dim his eyes,
No strength the healing herb, nor cordial draught supplies.