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SOPHIA'S ADDRESS TO SORROW.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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135

SOPHIA'S ADDRESS TO SORROW.

Source of the Stream, that from the gushing heart
Flows to the eye, and down the polish'd cheek
Of Youth and Beauty, as of furrow'd Age,
Takes its perturbed course! ah, cease to pour
Thy bitter waters on the gentle breast
Of sweet Sophia: dear, unhappy Maid!
Who, the grief-rounded Year, alas! thrice told,
Has steep'd her Birth-day pillow in her tears;
Oh, think that 'twas for Virtue's sake they flow'd!
A Daughter's duty, and a Sister's love.
With these, perchance, another potent cause
Mixed its soft drops! To love, and to resign
Love's fondest hope, that Virtue too is thine;
A bleeding Laurel of a Virgin heart!
The Conquerors of the World have rarely won!
Choose then, afflictive Power, some fitter mark
Of wholesome discipline; thy arrowy store
Point at the guilty breast; at his, who mocks
At sacred Chastisement, though sent from Heaven!
Or Gold's vile Slave, who, from his vacant heap,
Or thrift usurious, can from Famine's lip
Withhold the vital morsel; or false Friend;
Or those who laugh at others' miseries,
And weep their own.—These, and unnumber'd more,

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Deserve, demand, thy vengeance—Then be these
Thy future Victims! But let milder Guests
Enter Sophia's dwelling; soft Content
And modest Happiness, and Love approved,
And the high conscious Sense of acting well,
And Honour tried—A smiling Family!
Lovelier when sent by Sorrow to the spot
Where, Heav'n-commission'd, she has prov'd the Soul.
Accord this boon!—So shall the latest tears
That fall from her bright eyes, be tears of joy!