Classic Poem

Oh Pity! maid of warm, dissolving soul!
Whose lips effuse one soft, unceasing sigh;
Whose eyes o'er all the world of misery roll,
With tenderest dews adorn'd, and ne'er a moment dry:

Turn thy moist gaze to yon untimely tomb;
There, where that yew tree throws its night of shade,
Black'ning the scene with a religious gloom;
Anthelia's faded form 'tis there that they have laid,

Say, hast thou seen, and hast thou sorrowing seen,
Kill'd by the east, a beauteous rose-bud die,
Just as the red peep'd thro' the parting green,
Forbid t' unrol its blush to Expectation's eye?

Say, hast thou view'd, and hast thou sigh'd to view,
Dark, envious clouds eclipse the orient ray,
And, swift the reign of Darkness to renew,
In shades untimely veil the rosy youth of Day?

O'er lost Anthelia's turf then drop thy tear:
Then sigh thy sorrows o'er Anthelia's stone:
For fairest rose-bud never bloom'd so fair!
For morning's loveliest beams ne'er half so lovely shone!

By swift privations Heav'n her patience prov'd:
Full soon each parent's wing withdrew its shade:
She saw disease consume whom most she lov'd:
She felt its stealing power her own frail form invade.

That form was fair: but drew no borrow'd grace
From aught that Fashion's glitt'ring daughters wear:
Fated, fair sufferer! was thy beauteous face
To be set off alone by sorrow's glistering tear.

In Misery's school the docile pupil sat:
Death snatch'd her friends, and Health her youth forsook:
Yet not a whisper once complain'd of fate,
Heav'n stay'd her leaning heart, and Peace becalm'd her look.

'Mid life's black storms, their angry fires that fling
At each fair bough where man's fond heart would sit;
On which the wanderer hopes to rest its wing,
And build its nest of joys, and carol its delight;

Thy foot, white dove, Religion's laurel found:
Fixt on that hallow'd branch, serene, and safe,
Thou saw'st the harmless light'nings play around;
Assur'd, no lawless flash durst singe the holy leaf.

Say, Death, thou never pausing conqueror, say,
A brighter spoil did e'er thy trophy boast?
Ye shining tenants of eternal day!
When did a fairer mind e'er reach your blissful coast?

Descend, some radiant seraph, from the skies,
Descend, and tell us how Anthelia sings:
Paint the high rapture kindling in her eyes!
Say with how sweet a touch she sweeps her sounding strings.

Fond Fancy! cease. Anthelia's fame to raise,
The labouring muse, with vain ambition, tries:
Anthelia hears not the aspiring praise;
Lost in the grander note of loud-acclaiming skies.

Living, she lov'd each chaste and simple grace;
Let no vain sculpture tell where low she lies:
Thy modest violet, Nature, deck the place;
More elegant than all that toiling Art supplies.

Oft to the spot domestic Grief repairs,
In pensive solitude to sooth her care,
And wet the mournful hillock with her tears;
While Nature's gentle hand leads the fair pilgrim there.

Night, to the solemn dwellings of the dead,
Had lent its awful stillness and its gloom;
And the sick moon a languid beam display'd;
When forth she went to weep o'er the accustom'd tomb:

" Sad Phaebe! " said she, " dost thou mourn thy wanes:
Ah! mourn for mine: my borrow'd joys are gone:
Of all my full-orb'd bliss no ray remains,
To gild the sad opaque that late so splendid shone!

Say, great Eternal, why forbid to blow
This beauteous gem? oh, tell a wonderer, why!
While noxious weeds so long unwithering grow! "
Hark! yonder shining form, mild leaning from the sky:

" Nor mourn, nor murmur, child of frailty, more;
Nor let thy soul in vain researches rove:
Patient attend the hour, when Truth shall pour
A clear unclouded light o'er Heaven's unsullied love. "