 | Letters and poems |  |
The fair Mourner.
In what sad Pomp the mournful Charmer lies!Does she lament the Victim of her Eyes?
Or wou'd she Hearts with soft Compassion move,
To make 'em take the deeper stamp of Love?
What Youth so wise, so wary to escape,
When Rigour comes, drest up in Pity's shape?
Let not in vain those precious Tears be shed,
Pity the Dying fair One, not the Dead;
While you unjustly of the Fates complain,
I grieve as much for you, as much in vain.
Each to relentless Judges make their moan,
Blame not Death's Cruelty, but cease you own.
While raging Passion both out Souls does wound,
A soveraign Balm might sure for both be found;
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And with a just Compassion mine survey.
| Letters and poems | |