To watch and weep beſide a parent's bed,
Catch the faint voice, and raiſe the languid head,
What mixt delight each feeling heart muſt warm!
An angel's office ſuits an angel's form.
Thus the tall column graceful rears its head
To prop ſome mould'ring tower with moſs o'erſpread,
Whoſe ſtately piles and arches yet diſplay
The venerable graces of decay:
Thus round the wither'd trunk freſh ſhoots are ſeen
To ſhade their parents with a cheerful green.
More health, dear maid! thy ſoothing preſence brings
Than pureſt ſkies, or ſalutary ſprings.
That voice, thoſe looks ſuch healings virtues bear,
Thy ſweet reviving ſmiles might cheer deſpair;
On the pale lips detain the parting breath,
And bid hope bloſſom in the ſhades of death.
Beauty, like thine, could never reach a charm
So powerful to ſubdue, ſo ſure to warm.
