Classic Poem

Oh Death! how vast an Harvest hast thou reap'd of late!
Never before hadst thou so great,
Ne'er drunk'st before so deep of Jewish Blood,
Ne're since th'embattled Hosts at Gibean stood;
When three' whole days took up the work of Fate,
When a large Tribe enter'd at once thy Bill,
And threescore thousand Victims to thy Fury fell.
Upon the fatal Mountains Head,
Lo! how the mighty Chiefs lie dead:
There my beloved Jonathan was slain,
The best of Princes, and the best of Men;
Cold Death hangs on his Cheeks like an untimely Frost
On early Fruit, there sits, and smiles a sullen Boast,
And yet looks pale at the great Captive, she has ta'en.
My Jonathan is dead (oh dreadful word of Fame!
Oh grief! that I can speak't, and not become the same!)
He's dead, and with him all our blooming Hopes are gone,
And many a wonder, which he must have done,
And many a Conquest which he must have won,
They're all to the dark Grave and Silence fled
And never now in story shall be read,
And never now shall take their date,
Snatch'd hence by the preventing hand of envious Fate.