Classic Poem

THE paper's blacken'd edges peep,
With mournful aspect warn to weep!
The Seal with fearful speed is broke,
'Tis thus the sorrowing writer spoke—
“Oh Charles beloved! my Dear is dead,
And every bliss, for ever, fled!
You, and your wife her constant friend,
Her funeral rites must now attend!”
The day arrived, the solemn Bell
In dismal notes tolled Laura's knell,
And floating plumes on shoulders borne
The dusty lanes and streets adorn.
Charles, and his Mate, in blackness clad,
With rueful thoughts, and faces sad,
Saw her interr'd;—heard—“Dust to Dust!”
And cried—To this all come and must.
The coaches then in sad array
Paced back the mournful late trod way.
The Widower sad, alone, Charles found,
In sable length upon the ground.
Soft Consolation he essayed,
And many a weary moment staid!
From scripture culled a sacred store,
And drain'd from heathenish learned lore
All that was ever thought or said,
To prove—we cant call back the dead!
His Tears were soothed at every gush,
Until at length his sorrows hush.
Oh! Charles, James said, thou'rt very kind!
This shall live long within my mind.
How shall the Friendship I repay,
Thou'st proved upon this mournful day,
Which tore my dearest Wife from me,
And placed her with her Family?
Charles rubbed his cheek, and thus replied,
With head a little turned aside!
Why, dearest James, thou shalt to me
Be just—the Friend I've been to thee!
Would Fate grant that! 'tis all I ask—
Be Mine the Sorrow, thine the Task!