Classic Poem

A PARTICULAR FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR .

Sunk was the Sun, midst clouds of gold,
Lone Night reign'd from her starry dome,
When flow I left the bleating fold,
And weary sought my little home.

There, sad and chearless, near the fire,
I gloomy sat, to grief resign'd;
And, while down stole the silent tear,
These thoughts slow wand'red o'er my mind.

— — my distant friend, I fear — —
Why these woe-bodings at my heart?
What sound still tinkles in my ear,
Which Mirth nor Pleasure can divert?

I spoke — I sigh'd — and rais'd my head — —
I sigh'd, I groan'd, yet knew not why,
When, strange! a voice soft breath'd out, Dead!
I heard, and chang'd to palest clay.

Prostrate I fell, lull'd in a faint,
Till by degrees life on me broke;
I wak'd to mis'ry — rose pale, spent,
And thus in deep distraction spoke.

And art thou gone, oh! hapless Youth!
And shall these eyes ne'er view thee more?
Thou, in whose glowing breast dwelt truth,
Art thou for ever from me tore?

Ye dreary walls, list to my doom,
Bear witness to my heart-felt wail,
And wrap you with a darker gloom,
While I relate the mournful tale.

For, oh! insatiate cruel death,
Hath torn from me my dearest friend;
Then farewel, World, and hated breath;
I shall not long delay behind.

Ah, see! the breathless Cor'se there lies,
White stretch'd along — distracting sight!
How chang'd that face! How sunk those eyes!
For ever sunk in endless night!

Pale is the face that wont to smile,
Adorn'd with charms of native red;
Cold, cold that breast, where envious Guile
Ne'er found a shelter for her head.

Oh! barb'rous Death — relentless Pow'r!
How hast thou made my bosom bleed?
In one tremendous, awful hour,
Thou'st made me wretched — poor indeed.

Ye once delightful scenes, adieu!
Where first I drew my infant breath,
Since the sole friend this breast ere knew,
Clos'd are his eyes, and sunk in death.

Farewel, ye Banks with willows tipt,
Where oft beneath the summer beam,
'Midst flow'ry grass, we've fondly stript,
And plung'd beneath the opening stream.

No more, while Winter rules the sky,
And firms pure C ARTHA'S icy face,
Shall he on skates, swift, bounding fly,
While I pursue the mazy chace.

No more, alas! we'll nightly walk
Beneath the silent, silver Moon;
Or pass the rapt'ring hours in talk,
In yonder Bow'r, retir'd from noon.

How will that beauteous Maid bewail,
Whose charms first caught his youthful heart?
Who often heard his tender tale,
And, blushing, eas'd his wounding smart.

No more with thee he'll spend the Night,
Where C YNTHIA gleams athwart the grove;
Nor seize thy hand, in dear delight,
And tell enchanting tales of love.

Alas! he's bid a long adieu;
In vain we weep, in vain repine;
Ne'er shalt thou meet a Swain so true,
Ne'er shall I find a friend so kind.

How long we've been companions dear,
How lov'd — nor tongue nor words can tell;
But, hark! — alas! methinks I hear
Some solemn, dreary warning knell.

Yes — I will come — thou beck'ning Ghost;
I hear thy kind, thy awful call:
One green-grass sod shall wrap our dust,
And some sweet Muse weep o'er our fall.