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Through time's dark womb, our judgment right,

If our dim eye was thrown,

Clear fhould we fee, the will divine

Has but foreftall'd our own;

At variance with our future wifh,

Self-fever'd we complain;

If so, the wounded, not the wound,
Muft answer for the pain :

The day shall come, and swift of wing,
Though you may think it flow,
When, in the lift of fortune's fmiles,
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 ftrong and endless ties ;
And every forrow cuts a string,
And urges us to rife:

"Twill found fevere-Yet reft affur'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 blefs,
Beyond the brightest beams of life,
Dark days of your distress,

1

Hear

Hear then without furprize a truth,

A daughter-truth to this,
Swift turns of fortune often tie
A bleeding heart to blifs :

Efteem you this a paradox ?
My facred motto read ;
A glorious truth!'divinely fung
By one, whose heart had bled;
To Refignation swift he flew,
In her a friend he found,

A friend, which bleft him with a fmile,
When gafping 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 fhock,
Ere found what truly charms; as found
A Venus in the block.

In fome difafter, fome fevere

Appointment for our fins,

That mother bleffing (not fo call'd),

True happiness, begins.

No martyr e'er defy'd the flames,

By ftings of life unvext;

First rofe fome quarrel with this world,

Then paffion for the next.

You

You fee, then, pangs are parent pangs,

The pangs of happy birth;

Pangs, by which only can be born

True happinefs on earth.

The peopled earth look all around,

Or through time's records run;
And fay, what is a man unftruck ?
It 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 fupport.

How exquifite the smart!

How critically tim'd the *

news

Which ftrikes me to the heart!

The pangs of which I fpoke, I feel:
If worth like thine, is born,
O long-belov'd! I blefs the blow,
And triumph, whilst I mourn.

Nor mourn I long; by grief fubdued

By reafon's empire shown;

Deep anguish comes by Heaven's decree,

Continues by our own;

VOL. III.

H

And

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

And when continued past its point,
Indulg'd in length of time,

Grief is difgrace, and, what was fate,
Corrupts into a crime :

And fhall I, criminally mean,
Myself and fubject wrong?
No; my example shall support
The fubject of my song.

Madam I grant your lofs 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 fet us free,
And earth's enchantment end;
It takes the most effectual means,
And robs us of a Friend.

But fuch a friend! and figh no more?
'Tis prudent; but severe :
Heaven aid my weakness, and I drop,
All forrow-with this tear.

Perhaps your fettled grief to footh,
I should not vainly strive,

But with soft balm your pain affuage,
Had he been ftill alive;

Whofe frequent aid brought kind relief,
In distress of thought,

my

Ting'd with his beams my cloudy page

And beautify'd a fault :

Το

To touch our passions' secret springs

Was his peculiar care;

And deep his happy genius div'd

In bofoms of the fair;

Nature, which favours to the few,

All art beyond, imparts,

To him prefented at his birth,
The key of human hearts.

But not to me by him bequeath'd
His gentle, fmooth addrefs;
His tender hand to touch the wound
In throbbing of distress:

Howe'er, proceed I muft, unblefs'd
With Efculapian art:

Know, love fometimes, mistaken love!

Plays difaffection's part:

Nor lands, nor feas, nor funs, nor ftars,
Can foul from foul divide;
They correfpond from diftant worlds,
Though transports are deny'd:

Are you not, then, unkindly kind?
Is not your love severe ?

O! ftop that cryftal fource of woe;
Nor wound him with a tear.

As thofe above from human blifs
Receive encrease of joy;

May not a stroke from human woe,
In part, their peace destroy?

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