Classic Poem

The Huzite sigh'd, and said: " My words attend!
Afford this only comfort to your friend.
Suffer my tongue to speak my thoughts, and then
Renew your scoffs: do I complain to men?
Since God such dreadful arms against me bears,
O, why should I suppress my sighs and tears!
My suff'rings with astonishment survey,
And on your silent lips your fingers lay.
For should my enemy endure the like,
The story would my soul with horror strike.
Why live the wicked? they by vices thrive,
Sail on smooth seas, and at their port arrive;
Confirm a long succession, and behold
Their num'rous offspring, in excess grow old.
Their houses on secure foundations stand,
Nor are they humbled by the Almighty's hand.
Their lusty bulls serve not their kine in vain,
Their calves the breeders their full time retain.
Abroad like flocks their little ones they send;
Their children dance, in active sports contend,
Strike the melodious harp, shrill timbrels ring,
And to the warbling lute soft ditties sing.
Life is to them a long-continued feast,
And sleep is not more calm than Death's arrest.
To God they say: " Enjoy Thy heaven alone;
Be Thou to us, as we to Thee, unknown."
For what is He, that we should Him obey,
Or fruitless vows before His altar pay?
Yet their felicity from Him proceeds;
Nor am I culpable of their misdeeds.
When are their tapers quench'd? do they expire,
Struck by the Thunderer with darts of fire?
How oft are they like chaff by whirlwinds tost,
Or early blossoms bitten by the frost?
When are their vices punish'd in their seed?
When for their own offences do they bleed?
How often tread destruction's horrid path?
And drink the dregs of the Revenger's wrath?
Care they for their deserted families,
When Death's all-curing hand shall close their eyes?
Shall man His Maker teach, Who sits on high,
And sways the world's inferior monarchy?
Two men at once behold: the one possest
Of his desires, with peace and plenty blest,
From whose swol'n breast a stream of milk distills,
Whose bones high feeding with hot marrow fills;
The other, miserable from his birth,
A burthen to himself and to the earth,
Who never could his hunger's rage suffice.
That in perfection, this in sorrow dies.
Yet death, more equal, these extremes conforms,
And covers their corrupting flesh with worms.
I know your counsels; can your thoughts detect;
The forged crimes you purpose to object.
Where are, say you, those palaces that blaz'd
With burnish'd gold, on carved columns rais'd?
Built on the ruins of the poor, the soil
By extortion purchas'd, and adorn'd with spoil?
Be judg'd by travellers; they will confute
What falsely you suggest, and strike you mute;
For these and those, who high in vice command,
Against the thunder's rage securely stand;
And flourish in the day of wrath, when all
About them by the stroke of slaughter fall.
Who dare against the great in mischief plead,
Or turn his injuries upon his head?
They shall his corpse with funeral pomp inter,
And lodge him in a sumptuous sepulchre.
The flow'rs which in the circling valley grow
Shall on his monument their odours throw.
All that survive shall follow him, and tread
That common path, by innumerable led.
Why vainly then pretend you my relief,
And with false comforts aggravate my grief? "