Page:Poems By Chauncy Hare Townshend.djvu/74

 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

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