Poems (Truesdell)/Musings
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For works with similar titles, see Musings.
MUSINGS.
"The poor, oppressed, honest man.
Had never sure been born,
Had there not been some recompense,
To comfort those that mourn."—Burns.
Had never sure been born,
Had there not been some recompense,
To comfort those that mourn."—Burns.
'Twas by a flowing river, on a green and mossy bed,
I, in silent sadness, pondered, and reclined my weary head;
My thoughts went flowing, flowing like a wild and rapid stream,
But it was no theme of fancy—no sweet, poetic dream
I, in silent sadness, pondered, and reclined my weary head;
My thoughts went flowing, flowing like a wild and rapid stream,
But it was no theme of fancy—no sweet, poetic dream
That pressed upon my spirit, but the bitter ills of life,
With which this world, though beautiful, is ever, ever rife:
'T was of the widowed mother, who toils both day and night,
To feed her orphan children, and earn her widow's mite.
With which this world, though beautiful, is ever, ever rife:
'T was of the widowed mother, who toils both day and night,
To feed her orphan children, and earn her widow's mite.
With a worn and weary spirit, with a sad and aching brow,
To the bitter ills of poverty how hardly does she bow!
Oh! cruel are the heartless ones, who could the poor oppress,
Nor ever seek to aid them, amid their deep distress.
To the bitter ills of poverty how hardly does she bow!
Oh! cruel are the heartless ones, who could the poor oppress,
Nor ever seek to aid them, amid their deep distress.
The rich, the gay, the happy, how swiftly do they glide
Adown the sunny stream of life, in plenteousness and pride;
They seldom think upon the poor, who toil from year to year,
With heavy grief upon their hearts, and none their tasks to cheer.
Adown the sunny stream of life, in plenteousness and pride;
They seldom think upon the poor, who toil from year to year,
With heavy grief upon their hearts, and none their tasks to cheer.
No bright dreams of the future, no sweet dreams of the past,
But a fund of bitter memories, their spirits overcast;
How languidly the needle is plied with bitter pain,—
Comes sickness, direst evil! amid the meager train.
But a fund of bitter memories, their spirits overcast;
How languidly the needle is plied with bitter pain,—
Comes sickness, direst evil! amid the meager train.
Oh! many are the sorrows that press upon the poor:
May God, who watches o'er them, give them strength but to endure;
And when their days are ended, may they dwell amid the blest,
And hear the welcome summons, "Come, ye weary ones, and rest."
May God, who watches o'er them, give them strength but to endure;
And when their days are ended, may they dwell amid the blest,
And hear the welcome summons, "Come, ye weary ones, and rest."