Thomson. TO HIS WIFE, ON THE DEATH OF THEIR SON.
Yet still I owe a debt—it must be paid— Tis due to her whose life hath dropt in shade; A quick eclipse hath come, and wrapt her dark: If he was lovely—he by her was made Of her own fashion; I had but to mark How in her ray his youthful soul grew bright, A tender planet and its satellite. These were my lustres—I have seen both fail- One is extinguish'd—one is shorn and pale, Patiently setting with a silent wane— Looking a loss that nothing can regain.
Scot.
TO A TEAR.
Hail! little tell-tale of the heart, Most bitter and most sweet I
Form'd to relieve misfortune's smart, To bid dull care retreat.
Hail! little drop, like crystal clear, Oft shed by beauty's eye,
Whenever pity claims the tear Of sensibility!
For your bland waters do not know
A selfish source alone; Oft have I seen their fountains flow
For sorrows not their own.
