Page:Poems By Chauncy Hare Townshend.djvu/74

From Wikisource
Jump to navigation Jump to search
This page needs to be proofread.

THE P'OETSS GRAVE'. And when Compossion's gen'rous hand To brighter skies, and gales more bland, Their, drooping beauties bore; When, op'ning on a milder day, They dar'd their vernal tints display, Death laid them in the dust--alas, to rise uo more Disease, how blunted is thy sting, When hands we love assiduous bring The cup of healing power; When, as unquiet slumber flies, ' We turn our languid asking eyes On someclearface,which smiles on sorrow's darkest hour. But no 1ov'd hand thy pillow smooth'd, No softer care attentive sooth'd Thy last sad hours below; Dew'd by no warm spontaneous tear Hir'd mourners o'er thy friendless bier Pour'd the fictitious plaint of mercenary woe. 'Tis ever thus; Fate's sordid smile Beams on the heartless and the vile, While Merit weeps unknown; For them, officious Plenty pours The full luxuriance ofher stores; The?, live, 'while Virtue dies unpitied and alone. ......... ?Google