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Sickness and sorrow hovering round my bed,

Who now with anxious haste shall bring relief, With lenient hand support my drooping head,

Assuage my pains, and mitigate my grief? Should worldly business call away,

Who now, shall in my absence fondly mourn, Count every minute of the loitering day,

Impatient for my quick return? Should aught my bosom discompose,

Who now, with sweet complacent air,
Shall smoothe the rugged brow of Care,

And soften all my woes?
Too faithful Memory-cease, oh! cease-

How shall I e'er regain my peace ? (Oh, to forget her!)-but how vain each art, Whilst every virtue lives imprinted on my heart !

And thou, my little cherub, left behind

To hear a father's plaints, to share his woes, When Reason's dawn informs thy infant mind,

And thy sweet lisping tongue shall ask the cause, How oft with sorrow shall mine eyes run o'er,

When, twining round my knees, I trace

Thy mother's smile upon thy face!
How oft to my full heart shalt thou restore
Sad memory of my joys--ah, now no more!
By blessings once enjoy'd now more distress'd,
More beggar by the riches once possess'd,
My little darling !-dearer to me grown

By all the tears thou'st caus'd-oh! strange to hear!
Bought with a life yet dearer than thy own,
Thy cradle purchas'd with thy mother's bier :

Who now shall seek with fond delight
Thy infant steps to guide aright?
She, who with doating eyes would gaze
On all thy little artless ways,

By all thy soft endearments blest,
And clasp thee oft with transport to her breast,

Alas! is gone-yet shalt thou prove
A father's dearest, tenderest love;

And, O sweet senseless smiler (envied state !)
As yet unconscious of thy hapless fate,

When years thy judgment shall mature,
And Reason shews those ills it cannot cure,

Wilt thou, a falher's grief ť assuage,
For virtue prove the Phenix of the earth
(Like her, thy mother died to give thee birth,)

And be the comfort of my age ?
When sick and languishing I lie,
Wilt thou my Emma's wonted care supply?

And, oft as to thy listening ear,
Thy mother's virtues and her fate I tell,

Say, wilt thou drop the tender tear,
Whilst on the mournful theme I dwell?
Then fondly stealing to thy father's side,

Whene'er thou seest the soft distress, Which I would vainly seek to hide,

Say, wilt thou strive to make it less ? To soothe my sorrows all thy cares employ, And in my cup of grief infuse one drop of joy?

AN EVENING ADDRESS TO A NIGHTINGALE. SWEET bird! that, kindly perching near,

Pourest thy plaints melodious in mine ear, Not, like base worldlings, tutord to forego The melancholy haunts of woe;

Thanks for thy sorrow-soothing strain : For, surely, thou hast known to prove, Like me, the pangs of hapless love;

Else why so feelingly complain,
And with thy piteous notes thus sadden all the grove?
Say, dost thou mourn thy ravish'd mate,

That oft enamour'd on thy strains has hung?
Or has the cruel hand of Fate
Bereft thee of thy darling young ?

Alas! for both I weep :

In all the pride of youthful charms,
A beauteous bride torn from my circling arms !
A lovely babe that should have liv'd to bless,

And fill my doating eyes with frequent tears, At once the source of rapture and distress,

The flattering prop of my declining years ! In vain from death to rescue I essay'd,

By ev'ry art that science could devise; Alas! it languish'd for a mother's aid,

And wing'd its flight to seek her in the skies.
Then, oh! our comforts be the same,

At evening's peaceful hour,
To shun the noisy paths of wealth and fame,

And breathe our sorrows in this lonely bow'r.

But why, alas! to thee complain,
To thee-unconscious of my pain?.
Soon shalt thou cease to mourn thy lot severe,
And hail the dawning of a happier year:

The genial warmth of joy-renewing spring
Again shall plume thy shatter'd wing;
Again thy little heart shall transport prove,

Again shall flow thy notes responsive to thy love. But, oh! for me in vain may seasons roll,

Nought can dry up the fountain of my tears: Deploring still the comfort of my soul,

I count my sorrows by increasing years.

Tell me, thou Syren Hope, deceiver, say,

Where is the promis'd period of my woes ? Full three long, lingering years have roll'd away, And yet I weep, a stranger to repose :

O what delusion did thy tongue employ! “That Emma's fatal pledge of love,

Her last bequest, with all a mother's care, The bitterness of sorrow should remove, Soften the horrors of despair,

And cheer a heart long lost to joy!”

How oft, when fondling in my arms,
Gazing enraptur'd on its angel-face,

My soul the maze of Fate would vainly trace,
And burn with all a father's fond alarms!
And oh what flattering scenes had fancy feign'd!
How did 'I rave of blessings yet in store!
Till ev'ry aching sense was sweetly pain'd,
And my full heart could bear, nor tongue could

utter more. “ Just Heaven !” I cried, with recent hopes elate,

“ Yet will I live-will live, tho' Emma's dead; So long bow'd down beneath the storms of fate,

Yet will I raise my woe.dejected head !
My little Emma, now my all,

Will want a father's care;
Her looks, her wacts, my rash resolves recal,

And for her sake the ills of life I'll bear :
And oft together we'll complain,

Complaint the only bliss my soul can know. From me my child shall learn the mournful strain, And prattle tales of woe.

And, oh! in that auspicious hour,

When Fate resigns her persecuting pow'r, With duteous zeal her hand shall close,

No more to weep, my sorrow-streaming eyes, When death gives misery repose, And opes a glorious passage to the skies." Vain thought! it must not be-she too is dead;

The flatt'ring scene is o'er;
My hopes for ever, ever fled;

And vengeance can no more.
Crush'd by misfortune, blasted by disease,

And none-none left to bear a friendly part! To meditate my welfare, health, or ease,

Or soothe the anguish of an aching heart! Now all one gloomy scene, till welcome death,

With lenient hand (oh falsely deem'd severe), Shall kindly stop my grief-exhausted breath,

And dry up ev'ry tear.

Perhaps, obsequious to my will,

But, ah! from my affections far remov'd!
The last sad office strangers may fulfil,
As if I ne'er had been belov'd;
: As if, unconscious of poetic fire,
I ne'er had touch'd the trembling lyre;
As if my niggard hand ne'er dealt relief,
Nor my heart melted at another's grief.

Yet, while this weary life shall last,
While yet my tongue can form th' impassion'd

strain,
In piteous accents shall the muse complain,
And dwell with fond delay on blessings past:

For oh how grateful to a wounded heart,
The tale of misery to impart !
From others' eyes bid artless sorrows flow,

And raise esteem upon the base of woe!
Even He,* the noblest of the tuneful throng,

Shall deign my love-lorn tale to hear, Shall catch the soft contagion of my song,

And pay my pensive Muse the tribute of a tear.

• Lord Lyttelton.

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