Classic Poem

LXI.

Yet still no Stoic he, with cold neglect
To treat his own, despising nature's tie;
Nor raving, rapt, enthusiast, to expect
A miracle from heaven for their supply —
No, no; the dew that moistens either eye,
The heavy sigh he labours to suppress,
While stretching forth his feeble hand, to dry
The stream of grief that flows on every face,
Compassion, love sincere, and deep regret confess.

LXII.

My little ones, he cries, for whom e'en toil
Was sweet at morn, at noon, or twilight grey,
If still I found you with complacent smile,
Around me gather'd at the close of day.
Oft, while the silent hours have wing'd their way,
Each shedding soft on you its soothing power,
Watchful, have I remain'd behind to pray,
That Heaven might long defer this trying hour,
And kind, upon your heads, its choicest blessings pour:

LXIII.

But Heaven denies in part — This arm no more
Shall lend you aid, my sands of life are run;
Alas! I see you, worn with travel sore,
In life's lorn pathways friendless and alone.
But turn, O turn your eyes to Mercy's throne,
There fix your hopes, lodge all your sorrows there;
He never met the suppliant with a frown,
Though doom'd by man the victim of despair,
O sweet! His gracious smile can every loss repair.

LXIV.

Farewell, my babes! afar from rude alarms,
In life's low valley be your quiet abode;
Around you be the everlasting arms,
And your strong refuge still th' Eternal God.
And, O! my spouse, the stream of woe how broad!
A heavy, heavy charge devolves on you;
On Jesus lay the overwhelming load,
His grace alone can bear you safely through —
Let him have all the work, and all the glory too.

LXV.

And as ye all shall answer in that day
When melting, every element shall burn,
When heaven and earth for fear shall fly away,
And Time expire upon his broken urn.
Beware from duty's path ye do not turn,
To sport in wanton Folly's circling maze;
Or basely Reason and Religion spurn,
As oft is done in these degenerate days,
To catch the sickly gleam of Error's meteor blaze.

LXVI.

He adds not — for beneath the frost of death,
Heavy, life's clogged wheels can scarcely play,
Falters his speech, and weak his fluttering breath,
At every pause seems dying quite away:
Yet as his help-mate shrieks in wild dismay,
He lifts a look of pity on her case,
And, stretching forth his hand with faint essay,
Exclaims, while pleasure brightens on his face,
Weep not, my woes are o'er — the path I tread is peace.

LXVII.

Heavy, meanwhile, the long-expected morn,
Pale, lifts upon the world her languid eye;
Hoary the weary forests bend forlorn,
And hill and vale one dazzling ruin lye.
Swell'd huge around, the distant mountains high,
Cold on the view their lofty summits raise,
Like white clouds gleaming from the middle sky,
And broad, the rising sun upon the gaze,
A dark red globe of fire streams through the frosty haze.

LXVIII.

Dim creeps along the heath the misty hoar,
Dogs, answering dogs, a ceaseless barking keep,
And wild, by turns, it swells the inconstant roar
Of yonder torrent's shrilly sounding sweep
Scatter'd upon the hill the bleeting sheep,
And shepherd's voice, afar responsive rings;
Cold, from his turf beneath the drifty heap,
With clamour loud, the gorcock whirring springs,
And wild ducks, circling, shake the marsh with sounding wings.

LXIX.

When cross the muir to call a Christian friend,
Their little boy advent'rous plods his way,
Now in the hollow of the deep wreaths penn'd,
Now struggling o'er their tops as best he may.
When lo! the friend he seeks, his thin locks grey,
And bonnet blue, with cranreuch clustering hung,
Approaches, having with the dawn of day,
His breast with dark anticipations wrung,
From off a restless bed and broken slumbers sprung —

LXX.

And thus far, by a fond affection led,
Upon his way, the best or worst to know,
He learns the issue with a heart most sad,
And seeks the weeping cot in silent woe.
For as he leads the son, the Father so
O'er this same heath of old time hath he led,
Ere Time upon his head had shower'd his snow,
Ere with repeated strokes his heart had bled,
And all he prized of life, in death's cold urn was laid.