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, The day shall come, and swift of wing, For mark the path of Providence ; Our hearts are fasten'd to this world "Twill found fevere-Yet reft affur'd I'm ftudious of your peace; An hour shall come (you question this) 1 Hear Hear then without furprize a truth, A daughter-truth to this, Efteem you this a paradox ? A friend, which bleft him with a fmile, On earth nought precious is obtain'd By travel, and to travel born, Our fabbaths are but few: To real joy we work our way, 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; This moment, am I deeply ftung- 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: 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, Grief is difgrace, and, what was fate, And fhall I, criminally mean, Madam I grant your lofs is great ; Let that be weigh'd; when weigh'd aright, When Heaven would kindly fet us free, But fuch a friend! and figh no more? Perhaps your fettled grief to footh, But with soft balm your pain affuage, Whofe frequent aid brought kind relief, 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, But not to me by him bequeath'd Howe'er, proceed I muft, unblefs'd Know, love fometimes, mistaken love! Plays difaffection's part: Nor lands, nor feas, nor funs, nor ftars, Are you not, then, unkindly kind? O! ftop that cryftal fource of woe; As thofe above from human blifs May not a stroke from human woe, |