Page:The Pleasures of Imagination - Akenside (1744).djvu/75

Rh Of virtue mingles in the bitter tide Of passion swelling with distress and pain, To mitigate the sharp with gracious drops Of cordial pleasure? Ask the faithful youth, Why the cold urn of her whom long he lov'd So often fills his arms; so often draws His lonely footsteps at the silent hour, To pay the mournful tribute of his tears? O! he will tell thee, that the wealth of worlds Should ne'er seduce his bosom to forego That sacred hour, when stealing from the noise Of care and envy, sweet remembrance sooths With virtue's kindest looks his aking breast, And turns his tears to rapture.—Ask the crowd Which flies impatient from the village-walk To climb the neighb'ring cliffs, when far below The cruel winds have hurl'd upon the coast Some helpless bark; while sacred pity melts The general eye, or terror's icy hand Smites their distorted limbs and horrent hair; While every mother closer to her breast Catches her child, and pointing where the waves Foam thro' the shatter'd vessel, shrieks aloud As one poor wretch that spreads his piteous arms For succour, swallow'd by the roaring surge, As now another, dash'd against the rock, Drops lifeless down: O deemest thou indeed No kind indearment here by nature giv'n To