What is't to me though Earth's green lap be spread
With new--sprung flowers, the first--born of the year!
The smirking daisy and the cowslip tall
May walk the mead, or wander near the brook;
The liquid mirror may reflect the tree
Whose opening leaves now mottle all the stream;
Their fluttering tenants, crowding cliff and spray,
May the green curtain tight and closely draw,
To hide the habitation, wove with care,
And all the fostering secrecy of love.
The gilded insect basking in the sun,
Fann'd by his light, and many a colour'd wing,
Now shows with how much care Nature adorns
Her smallest work. What are all these to me!
My thoughts from pleasure and from former joys
Start wild away; Amusement's silver cords
Bind on the fancy no one form of bliss;
I try to lose myself, but still pursu'd
By Fear, I only fly to agony of mind,
There lose the sight of all but one sad grief,
Which sits enthron'd within this aching heart.

The fairest lily of the field now droops,--
Hangs low the head, where Beauty soft had wove
Those sweet entanglements that hold the eye,
And through her silken veil would fondly show
The various workings of the virtuous soul;
The heart look'd through, and spread along the face
The sentimental trait that mark'd the mind.
Compassion oft would bud into a tear,
And honest Scorn would flush the redd'ning cheek,
When harsh conclusions or ungenerous truths
Would drop like gall from the satiric tongue.
Worth she approv'd, however mean array'd;
And greatness could not charm but by the soul.
Her accents fell with such a melting sound
On every word that cloth'd her modest thought,
That sweet Expression told the careless heart
Whene'er she spoke she could not speak in vain!
Your eye from her's would learn a mode of speech
Which, when she pleas'd, could useless make the ear,
And ere the sentence left its hallow'd cave,
Would tell what thought was venturing next abroad.
Nor had Disguise in all her face or soul
One place to hide her poor and artful head;
Truth and her train had tenanted each cell,
And honest Friendship at the portal stood
To point or tell you what was done within.

But, ah! she droops; and I am drooping too!
'Tis not for me to hold the aching head,
And cordials in my hands and eyes to bear,
To cheer her longer with a ray of hope,
And promise Ease, that wanders with To--morrow;
To watch the askings of the weary eye,
And ere the wish be form'd the wish foresee;
To me such happiness must ne'er belong!
Myself who tax the tenderness of friends,
And oft require their all--supporting aid,
Else, else this drooping, withering plant had long,
Had long ere this been mouldering in the dust.

O Father of the Universe! 'tis thou
Who giv'st us life, and health, and joy, and ease;
For these continu'd grateful let us be;
If taken from us, let us firm believe
Thy goodness equal in what thou withhold'st,
As in what thou benevolently giv'st;
Let us submit. But oh! if 'tis thy will
To save my friend, and hold her yet in life,
O God of Heaven! how thankful shall I be.
If not, let me, all humble, strive to yield,
Assur'd that thou hast everlasting store
Of endless bliss for every soul like her's;
For true religion purified her heart,--
Ran through the current of her blameless life,
And made it one continued hymn to Thee!