An Elegy, written on the evening of the calamity which appeared at the Duke Pit

O God most mighty! Most supreme! Most high!
By whom we live, at whose decree we die,
Inspire my soul! assist me to explain,
Those mis'ries, which, a mortal fails to name;
Help me to lay, before a gen'rous world,
The sudden woe, in which the widow's hurl'd;
Show me how much, a host of infants claim;
The help of those who bear the Christian name,

The wind is whistling now, o'er many ahead,
That's weeping sadly for a husband dead,
And many a prattling child, with anguish sigh.
To know the cause, for which their mothers cry.
Alas! poor infant, little dost thou know,
The cause, which fills thy parent's heart with woe;
That he, who but an hour, or two before
Was thy fond father — but is now no more!
Has ceased to smile upon thy speaking face;
Has ceased, to run the all-important race.

Methinks I hear the carts go rumbling on.
Containing this, — a father, that-his son,
And now I see a youth, before the fire,
Outstretched lies beside his frigid sire;
While all the latent ties of flesh and blood
Breathe sighs to nature, and Heave groans to God.
Another cart! — how murmuring the sound
Which passes slowly o'er the ill paved ground
Containing — Who?" th' impatient kindred cry,