ONE melancholy week hath past in pain,
This day still more with apprehensive dread,
Oh does my father live, or is he gone,
To yonder happy clime, exempt from all
His pains and toils on earth?-Yes, sure ’tis true,
Those tears are wip’d, which oft for me he shed;
In silent anguish down his grief worn cheek,
When he has thought how hard hath been my lot.
No Mother’s care, to point my heedless steps,
Or teach my feet to walk in paths secure.
Chill blows the blast, and cold around my heart,
And opens every pore that bleeds afresh,
For ills accumulate, sustain’d long since,
And might have been forgot by vulgar minds,
Who think of nought beyond their present ken,
But what their daily hourly wants suggest.
Would that were me! But no; for there are times
I would not give those dear delicious joys,
These solitary, musing pensive thoughts,
For all the wealth that both the Indias prize.
(Margaretta Wedderburn)
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Based on Topics: Mind Poems, Joy & Excitement Poems, Pain Poems, Money & Wealth Poems, Advices PoemsBased on Keywords: wip, accumulate, apprehensive, indias