For the Poughkeepsie Advertiser
As all your readers are not avowed politicians, perhaps a little
piece that is not a State Paper may chance to be read.
The writing of Hezekiah king of Judah when he had been sick.
WHEN blooming health and chearful days
Far from my tents had flown,
When nature sunk by quick decays
And ev'ry hope was gone.
When yawning dreadful in my sight
Lay the dark dismal tomb,
To tear me from the chearful light
And plunge me in its gloom:
My God and why withhold thy race?
I cry'd in pangs of woe!
No more thy Heav'n - diffusing face
Shall I behold below.
As Cranes that chant in clouds above,
At times I loud complain;
And then like the lone mourning dove
In secret sigh my pain.
Like the Arabians shifted tent,
Departed is mine age;
And as the weavers shuttle spent,
I drop from off the stage
But what am I, poor breathing clay,
That dare to murmur still?
Asham'd, resigned, I obey
Nor more dispute his will.
By grief and pain, distress and death,
The soul is hush'd to peace:
That when is past th' expiring breath
It may respire in bliss.