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'ERWHELM'D with sorrow, and sustaining long "The proud man's contumely, th' oppressor's wrong," Languid despondency, and vain regret, Must my exhausted spirit struggle yet? Yes!—Robb'd myself of all that fortune gave, Even of all hope—but shelter in the grave, Still shall the plaintive lyre essay its powers To dress the cave of Care with Fancy's flowers, Maternal Love the fiend Despair withstand, Still animate the heart and guide the hand. —May you, dear objects of my anxious care, Escape the evils I was born to bear! Round my devoted head while tempests roll, Yet there, where I have treasured up my soul,