Classic Poem

LXXI.

And hence arose that intimacy warm,
Which gather'd strength from every passing year,
Where piety and passion join'd to charm,
In friendship ardent, generous, and sincere
In toils united, they were wont to bear
The scorching summer noon, the wintry morn,
And often have they linger'd long to hear
The redbreast warbling from the wintry thorn,
Or soft, on May's fair eve, the beetle wind his horn.

LXXIII.

And, soothing oft the hours of painful toil,
Digressive they would quote from history's page,
How kingdoms vigorous wore the beamy smile,
Or dozed through dull Oppression down to age.
How, in the winning garb of wisdom sage,
Villains have, fawning, seized the rod of power,
Then driving, headlong, with the whirlwind's rage,
Than death more cruel, bloody, bathed in gore,
Given war o'er earth to waste, and famine to devour.

LXXIV.

But still more sweet, and more sublime by far,
Redemption form'd their heart-enlivening theme;
And Him, who doth in righteousness make war,
The King of kings, and Lord of lords his name.
Of Providence who plann'd th' amazing scheme,
And rolls, high lifted up, the burning wheels,
Unerring, while the fierce devouring flame,
Or darkness dread, their steady course conceals,
And, struck through all her powers, astonish'd Nature reels.

LXXV.

And of experience past, or future hope,
Now from his dying friend he hastes to hear;
Or, if involv'd in gloom, that he may drop
Some soul-reviving word into his ear.
Alas! his friend hath pass'd that portal drear,
Whence never back shall traveller return,
Till on the clouds of heaven the Throne appear —
The great White Throne, with ensigns angel-borne,
Whose glowing blaze shall melt yon bright sun's golden urn.

LXXVI.

The body breathless lies, yet still his face
Retains, though faint, that last triumphant smile,
When, witli himself, and with his God at peace,
He hail'd the final end of all his toil.
His babes amaz'd look on, and, void of guile,
Weep loud, although their loss they do not know,
His widow'd wife above him hangs the while,
Pale as a marble monument of woe,
Nor sigh to ease her soul, nor softening tear can flow.

LXXVII.

Till, turn'd her eye upon her aged friend,
The kind companion oft of happier hours,
Who on her ear, in melting accents kind,
The healing balm of tender pity pours.
Then rous'd, her busy recollective powers
Fly back to scenes that never can return —
Scenes, that fond Memory purples all with flowers,
But hides the painful thistle and the thorn,
And flows the flood of grief while fierce her feelings burn.

LXXVIII.

And who can blame her tears? These eyes are dim,
That wont on her with ecstacy to beam;
And cold that face, with livid aspect grim,
Where every kindly feeling wont to gleam
And closed these lips for aye, whence many a stream
Of wisdom flow'd persuasive on her ear,
Powerful to sweep away the dazzling dream,
To heal the blight of sorrow's eye severe,
And sweet the lagging hours of drooping care to cheer.

LXXIX.

And nerveless lie these limbs, the steps of toil,
That, vigorous, wont with pleasure to pursue;
Whence, sweet, the placid look and lightsome smile,
The laughing hours, and winged minutes drew;
Whence, kindly, Competence her genial dew,
Diffusive, on their heads in silence shed;
And whence their little cot, companions true,
Content and independence still made glad,
While envy, hatred, pride, afar their presence fled.

LXXX.

And to secure these blessings still, the dawn
Shall find her daily at th' accustom'd toil,
And latest eve with her broad curtains drawn,
Shall leave her to consume the midnight oil.
And fears, and doubts, and heavy thoughts the while,
Shall damp her day, and scare her waukrife night,
And sad shall be the short and fitful smile,
That, like the meteor's transitory flight,
Sheds o'er her hectic cheek a momentary light.

LXXXI.

Long, long, alas! her wounded heart shall grieve —
And oft her babes shall see with secret fear,
As to the fields she looks at dewy eve,
Rush sudden o'er her cheek the silent tear.
And still as Spring reanimates the year,
She with her little flock, shall duly come,
On Sabbath noons, between the hours of prayer,
To weep anew upon his simple tomb,
Where green the long grass waves, and white the gowans bloom.

LXXXII.

And oft, when shut the door upon the storm,
And eve has closed the weary winter day,
While grows beneath each hand the stocking's form,
Or from their laps, the spindles twining play;
His virtues she with fervour shall display,
His zeal for God, his Christian temper even,
Till, each confessing one enlivening ray,
Their hearts renew'd, their trespasses forgiven,
A family ripe, at length they all arrive in heaven.