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Within their souls, a fount of grace divine;
And doth commend their weakness and disease
To Nature's care, assisted in her office
By all the Elements that round her wait
To generate, to preserve, and to restore;
And by her beautiful array of Forms
Shedding sweet influence from above, or pure
Delight exhaling from the ground they tread."
"Impute it not to impatience, if," exclaimed
The Wanderer, "I infer that he was healed
By perseverance in the course prescribed."
"You do not err: the powers, which had been lost
By slow degrees, were gradually regained;
The fluttering nerves composed; the beating heart
In rest established; and the jarring thoughts
To harmony restored.—But yon dark mold
Will cover him; in height of strength—to earth
Hastily smitten, by a fever's force.
Yet not with stroke so sudden as refused
Time to look back with tenderness on her
