Classic Poem

O! Say what griefs disturb thy gentle breast?
Why heaves thy bosom with the stifled sigh?
Why throbs that heart where peace was wont to rest?
Why steals the pearly drop from either eye?

“Ask me not why!—an Infant's loss I rue,
“Torn from her mother by the Pow'rs above:
“I dare not murmur—yet these tears are due
“To infant merit, and maternal love.

“The prattling tongue which lisp'd the tender tale,
“That tongue which sooth'd my ev'ry anxious care,
“The dews of unrelenting Death assail,
“And in the grave are lost those accents dear.

“Those eyes which shed the sympathetick tear,
“When Poverty distress'd her story told;
“That hand which smooth'd the furrow'd brow of care!—
—“Those eyes are clos'd in death—that hand “is cold.

“Affliction's lot fell heavy on my head,
“When late I lost whom then I held most dear;
“Thy Father—yet a hope delusive said,
“One comfort still is left thy soul to chear.”—

Cease thy vain plaints! nor blame th' Eternal Cause
Whose ways unknown, full oft from seeming ill
Produce a future good—his perfect laws
Ask not the guidance of the human will.

Who knows, if Heav'n had granted length of days,
But wily man had led her youth aftray;
And basely left her in the flow'ry maze
Of Vice, to shame and infamy a prey?

Or had her spotless Innocence, secur'd,
The flatt'ring paths of gay temptation fled,
Perhaps, Misfortune's pangs she had endur'd,
And sunk among the disregarded dead.

No mother's tear had wash'd her clay-cold tomb,
No Uncle's sigh had bade her soul adieu,
No female friend had then bewail'd her doom,
Or caught the parting blessing as it flew.

Think not the youthful Muse has feeling lost,
Who bids thee moderate thy tender care:
But when by Mis'ry or Misfortune crost,
Be this thy morning and thy evening pray'r:

—‘O! Pow'r Supreme that rul'st the human breast,
—‘To me thy grace impart, that so I may
‘Acknowledge thy decrees are ever just,
‘And lowly as the patient U ZZITE say;
“The Lord hath giv'n, the Lord hath ta'en away,
“And blessed be his holy name for aye.”