Classic Poem

Give Grief and Age relief! a bed
That sorrow may repose its head!

The sportive winds sprang up on high,
With feathery snow played through the sky,
The earth was cloathed, the hills grew white,
The shrinking Vales gave gelid light,
The blanch'd Oak waved his hoary crown,
And nook his silver garland down.
Green wheat, just piercing through the ground
With tender blade from root profound,
A chilling element found there,
That check'd its rise to live in air.
The Spirit of dread Storms awoke,
The roaring winds their magic spoke,
Transformed to Torrents settled snow
And bade the dark brow'd tempests grow,
O'er Devon's hills fierce waters gush'd,
And boisterous on the meadows rush'd,
They drench'd the Woodlands, choak'd the Plain,
Till all appeared one billowy Main.
Black clouds shot on in dread array,
And chased the last remains of day.
No spangled vault relieved the sight,
No soothing Moonlight graced the night,
But there the Pleiades were seen
Triumphant glittering and keen.
Old Thomas had some Goods, a Home,
Blest Charity uprear'd the dome!
His walls were bare, his floor was cold,
His food was scant, his garments old,
Yet, he complained not, he'd a Bed,
On which his weary limbs he spread,
To which consoling slumbers stole
To whisper Heaven to his Soul.
Now he was absent, and the Flood
By nothing earthly was withstood.
In billows vast and uncontrouled
Strait to his Cot it furious rolled;
Through boisterous waves he struggled sore,
But could not reach his lowly door,
Yet, near the spot he trembling stood,
To watch the mischiefs of the flood.
Nine hours his chilly post he kept,
Whilst round and round the whirlwind swept,
A watery death about was sprung
And to his aged figure clung,
Embraced him close, his bosom froze,
And higher higher still it rose.
All trembling, yet his ground he stood
To watch the mischiefs of the flood.
At Morn, the Spirit broke his Spell,
The winds grew calm, the deluge fell.
Close to his Cot Tom near'd his feet,
'Twas high delight, 'twas comfort sweet!
With Joy poor Thomas ope'd his door,
When lo! the pent up waters pour,
His hope to save his bed was foiled,
His Goods, his little stores, were spoiled!
Ye Rich! attend to Thomas' Prayer,
Beauty! the old man's loss repair,
Learning! be to his Miseries kind,
And Commerce! treasured stores unbind;
So shall each future fall of snow
Make your Minds thrill with chearful glow!
When lurid Norway's blasts cause dread,
And mischiefs through the Island spread,
Each vulture wind's most hideous yell
In your ears will prized Secrets tell!
And be as Music's sweetest note,
Borne in the chearful Blackbird's throat.

Then all restore! give Age a bed,
That sorrow may repose its head!