Page:Poems Mitford.djvu/42

Yet, had she learnt on this blest shore
To wish that slav'ry liv'd no more,
For many a tale of negro woe
Had bid her gen'rous bosom glow,
Pitying, she sigh'd at their distress,
And languish'd for the pow'r to bless.
Perchance it might be her's to save,
From equal grief, some Polish slave!
To life, to liberty restore!
And bid his bosom bleed no more!—
Alas, my dear-lov'd friend, 'tis thine
In hopeless, helpless woe, to pine!
'Tis thine in youth's enchanting hour,
And grac'd with beauty's witching pow'r,
Of ev'ry kindred friend bereav'd,
In ev'ry cherish'd hope deceiv'd,
To learn in that lov'd land to mourn,
An orphan, friendless, and forlorn!—
But still, my Zosia, youth and health
Are thine, and mines of mental wealth;