Page:The Village - Crabbe (1783).djvu/41

 If for that fate such public tears be shed, That victory seems to die now art dead; How shall a friend his nearer hope resign, That friend a brother, and whose soul was thine? By what bold lines shall we his grief express, Or by what soothing numbers make it less?

'Tis not, I know, the chiming of a song, Nor all the powers that to the Muse belong; Words aptly cull'd, and meanings well exprest, Can calm the sorrows of a wounded breast: But virtues shall his griefs restrain, And join to heal the bosom where they reign.

Yet hard the talk to heal the bleeding heart, To bid the still-recurring thoughts depart; Hush the loud grief, and stem the rising sigh, And curb rebellious passion with reply; Rh