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Through time's dark womb, our judgment right,

If our dim eye was thrown,
Clear should we fee, the will divine

Has but forestall'd our own;
At variance with our future wish,

Self-fever'd we complain ;
If so, the wounded, not the wound,

Must answer for the pain :
The day ihall come, and swift of wing,

Though you may think it slow,
When, in the list of fortune's smiles,

You ’ll enter frowns of woe. For mark the path of Providence ;

This course it has pursued “ Pain is the parent, woe the womb,

“ Of found, important good :" Our hearts are fasten'd to this world

By strong and endless ties; And every

sorrow cuts a string,
And urges us to rise :
'Twill sound severe-Yet rest assur'd

I’m ftudious of your peace;
Though. I should dare to give you joy--

Yes, joy of his decease:
An hour shall come (you question this)

An hour, when you shall bless,
Beyond the brightest beams of life,
Dark days of



Hear then without surprize a truth,

A daughter-truth to this, Swift turns of fortune often tie

A bleeding heart to bliss :
Esteem you this a paradox ?

My facred motto read ;
A glorious truth ! diyinely fung

By one, whose heart had bled;
To Resignation swift he few,

In her a friend he found,
A friend, which bleft him with a smile,

When gasping with his wound.
On earth nought precious is obtain'd

But what is painful too; By travel, and to travel born,

Our fabbaths are but few :
To real joy we work our way,

Encountering many a shock,
Ere found what truly charms; as found.

A Venus in the block.

In some disaster, some severe

* Appointment for our sins,
That mother blessing (not so call'd),

True happiness, begins.
No martyr e’er defy'd the flames,

By stings of life unvext;
First rose fome quarrel with this world,

Then passion for the next.


You see, then, pangs are parent pangs,

The pangs of happy birth;
Pangs, by which only can be born

True happiness on earth.
The peopled earth look all around,

Or through time's records run;
And say, what is a man unstruck ?

Jt is a man undone.
This moment, am I deeply ftung-

My bold pretence is try'd;
When vain man boasts, Heaven puts to proof

The vauntings of his pride;
Now need I, Madam! your support.

How exquisite the smart !
How critically tim'd the

Which strikes me to the heart !
The pangs of which I spoke, I feel :

If worth like thine, is born,
O long-belov'd! I bless the blow,

And triumph, whilft I mourn.
Nor mourn I long ; by grief subdued

By reason's empire shown ;
Deep anguish comes by Heaven's decree,

Continues by our own ;




* Whilst the Author was writing This, he received the news of Mr. Samuel Richardson's death, who was then printing the former part of the Poem.

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And when continued past its point,

Indulg'd in length of time,
Grief is disgrace, and, what was fate,

Corrupts into a crime :
And shall I, criminally mean,

Myself and subject wrong ?
No; my example shall support

The subject of my song.
Madam ! I grant your loss is great;

Nor little is your gain ;
Let that be weigh’d; when weigh'd aright,

It richly pays your pain ;
When Heaven would kindly set us free,

And earth's enchantment end ;
It takes the most effectual means,

And robs us of a Friend.. But such a friend ! and sigh no more ? 'Tis prudent;

but severe : Heaven aid my weakness, and I drop,

All sorrow with this tear.
Perhaps your settled grief to sooth,

I should not vainly strive,
But with soft balm your pain assuage,

Had he been still alive;
Whose frequent aid brought kind relief,

distress of thought,
Ting'd with his beams my cloudy page

And beautify'd a fault :



To touch our passions' secret springs

Was his peculiar care ;
And deep his happy genius div'd

In bosoms of the fair;
Nature, which favours to the few,

All art beyond, imparts,
To him presented at his birth,

The key of human hearts.
But not to me by him bequeath'd

His gentle, smooth address;
His tender hand to touch the wound

In throbbing of distress :
Howe'er, proceed I must, unbless’d

With Esculapian art :
Know, love sometimes, mistaken love!

Plays disaffection's part:
Nor lands, nor seas, nor suns, nor stars,

Can soul from foul divide;
They correspond from distant worlds,

Though transports are denyd :
Are you not, then, unkindly kind ?

Is not your love severe ?
O! stop that crystal source of woe ;

Nor wound him with a tear.
As those above from human bliss

Receive encrease of joy;
May not a stroke from human woe,

In part, their peace destroy?

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