Part 25 (2/2)

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 soothe, I should not vainly strive, But with soft balm your pain a.s.suage, Had he been still alive;

Whose frequent aid brought kind relief, In my distress of thought, Ting'd with his beams my cloudy page, And beautified a fault:

To touch our pa.s.sions' 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 soul divide; They correspond from distant worlds, Though transports are denied:

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 increase of joy; May not a stroke from human woe, In part, their peace destroy?

He lives in those he left;-to what?

Your, now, paternal care, Clear from its cloud your brighten'd eye, It will discern him there;

In features, not of form alone, But those, I trust, of mind; Auspicious to the public weal, And to their fate resign'd.

Think on the tempests he sustain'd; Revolve his battles won; And let those prophesy your joy From such a father's son:

Is consolation what you seek?

Fan, then, his martial fire: And animate to flame the sparks Bequeath'd him by his sire:

As nothing great is born in haste, Wise nature's time allow; His father's laurels may descend, And flourish on his brow.

Nor, madam! be surpris'd to hear That laurels may be due Not more to heroes of the field, (Proud boasters!) than to you:

Tender as is the female frame, Like that brave man you mourn, You are a soldier, and to fight Superior battles born;

Beneath a banner n.o.bler far Than ever was unfurl'd In fields of blood; a banner bright!

High wav'd o'er all the world.

It, like a streaming meteor, casts A universal light; Sheds day, sheds more, eternal day On nations whelm'd in night.

<script>