 | Miscellanies (1785) |  |
In yonder huts, at this profound of night,
The twelfth hour striking as the line I write,
In yonder scatter'd huts, now ev'ry swain,
With ev'ry maid and matron of the plain,
In sleep's soft arms on wholsome pallets prest,
Breathe forth the social passion as they rest:
But should dire fate the father make its prey,
Or snatch untimely one lov'd child away;
Or bear the faithful housewife to the tomb,
Or should the damsel sicken In her bloom,
No aid from fancy seeks the sorrowing heart,
But truth, with force unborrow'd, points the dart.
The twelfth hour striking as the line I write,
In yonder scatter'd huts, now ev'ry swain,
With ev'ry maid and matron of the plain,
In sleep's soft arms on wholsome pallets prest,
Breathe forth the social passion as they rest:
But should dire fate the father make its prey,
Or snatch untimely one lov'd child away;
Or bear the faithful housewife to the tomb,
Or should the damsel sicken In her bloom,
No aid from fancy seeks the sorrowing heart,
But truth, with force unborrow'd, points the dart.
| Miscellanies (1785) | |