The poems (1969) :: :: University of Virginia Library

O thou, the friend of man assigned,
With balmy hands his wounds to bind,
And charm his frantic woe:
When first Distress with dagger keen
Broke forth to waste his destined scene,
His wild unsated foe!

2

By Pella's bard, a magic name,
By all the griefs his thought could frame,
Receive my humble rite:
Long, Pity, let the nations view

416

Thy sky-worn robes of tenderest blue,
And eyes of dewy light!

3

But wherefore need I wander wide
To old Ilissus' distant side,
Deserted stream and mute?
Wild Arun too has heard thy strains,
And Echo, midst my native plains,
Been soothed by Pity's lute.

4

There first the wren thy myrtles shed
On gentlest Otway's infant head,
To him thy cell was shown;

417

And while he sung the female heart,
With youth's soft notes unspoiled by art,
Thy turtles mixed their own.

5

Come, Pity, come, by Fancy's aid,
Even now my thoughts, relenting maid,
Thy temple's pride design:
Its southern site, its truth complete,
Shall raise a wild enthusiast heat
In all who view the shrine.

6

There Picture's toils shall well relate
How chance or hard involving fate
O'er mortal bliss prevail:
The buskined Muse shall near her stand,
And sighing prompt her tender hand
With each disastrous tale.

7

There let me oft, retired by day,
In dreams of passion melt away,
Allowed with thee to dwell:

418

There waste the mournful lamp of night,
Till, virgin, thou again delight
To hear a British shell!