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And cold neglect, that day by dayConsumes the mourner's life away?Where now, the agony of heartThat faithless friendship can impart?Oh! it is worse than ail the rest,—It poisons, while it wounds the breast!And neither time, nor reason's swayCan pluck the fatal thorn away.
Now like some dark distressful dreamThat cross'd the brain, these sorrows seem;And 'mid this heav'nly breathing calmIf tears are shed, such tears are balm!—Such tears are mine———although they flowFrom sources of severest woe,They fall as softly as the show'rsFall on the fading grass and flow'rs.
Oh! Thou, whose grace can thus impart,Ease to a bruis'd and bleeding heart,Accept the praise my lips would give,And let me to thy glory live!From Thee each blessing I have known,Each warm regard that friends have shown,From Thee, alone, oh God! they came,And shalt not Thou, thine own reclaim!
If the full tide of bitter woeHas made these aching eyes o'erflow;If to my lips with deep-drawn sighsOne impious murmur e'er did rise,
