The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson ... for the first time fully collected and compared with the original and early editions ... edited ... by the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart ... with portrait, illustrations, &c |
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TO DR. TAYLOR, PAISLEY.
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 | The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson |  |
TO DR. TAYLOR, PAISLEY.
WRITTEN WHEN SICK.
When dread Disease assaults our trembling breath,
Wrings every nerve and paves the way for death;
Raves through our vitals, merciless to save,
Boils in each vein, and points us to the grave;
Rack'd with the pain, despairing at the view,
We fly for help to pitying Heaven and you.
Wrings every nerve and paves the way for death;
Raves through our vitals, merciless to save,
Boils in each vein, and points us to the grave;
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We fly for help to pitying Heaven and you.
Oft have I thought, while health flow'd in my breast,
Ere sleepless nights my weary heart opprest;
That should pale sickness sternly me invade
I'd scorn her rage if Taylor lent his aid.
Rous'd at the name, lo! disappointed Death,
In vain wild-wrenching to dislodge the breath,
Starts from the lonely couch, grasps up his dart,
And sullen-shrinking owns thy healing art.
Ere sleepless nights my weary heart opprest;
That should pale sickness sternly me invade
I'd scorn her rage if Taylor lent his aid.
Rous'd at the name, lo! disappointed Death,
In vain wild-wrenching to dislodge the breath,
Starts from the lonely couch, grasps up his dart,
And sullen-shrinking owns thy healing art.
Amid those numbers that implore your care,
That hope, by you, sweet health again to share;
Here I unhappy stand, with sadness prest,
And pin'd by ills that bind my lab'ring breast;
But should these woes that now I'm forc'd to bear,
Fly from your touch, and with them ev'ry fear;
Should your blest skill expunge this threat'ning pain,
And I resume my former health again,
This grateful heart your goodness shall revere
Next that Almighty God, Whose hand you are.
That hope, by you, sweet health again to share;
Here I unhappy stand, with sadness prest,
And pin'd by ills that bind my lab'ring breast;
But should these woes that now I'm forc'd to bear,
Fly from your touch, and with them ev'ry fear;
Should your blest skill expunge this threat'ning pain,
And I resume my former health again,
This grateful heart your goodness shall revere
Next that Almighty God, Whose hand you are.
| The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson | |