Eudosia to Evander
Thy bosom cold to each endearing claim—
Oh thou! that cou'd to Infamy consign
A peaceful heart, which never knew the name,
Till Gratitude and Folly made it thine!
Think not I ask that Justice from thy hand,
Which injuries like mine must make my due;
The heart which views the ruin it has plann'd,
But feebly feels compassion at the view!
For thee I've lost—what worlds can ne'er supply—
The gen'rous pride and confidence of Youth!
Sweet Innocence upbraids my timid eye,
And Conscience flies the piercing glance of Truth.
In vain my youthful mind was gently fraught
With all paternal tenderness cou'd teach!
With Emulation fir'd—and nobly taught
To love the Excellence it cou'd not reach.
In vain wou'd Precept check the hasty flight,
And bright Example all its force impart—
Precept that wore the language of Delight,
And mixt with sweet Persuasion, gain'd the heart.
In vain Affection—Care—and Thought combin'd
To save the Child of Ruin and Despair!
For Love consum'd the blossoms of my mind,
And Treach'ry blasted all a scene so fair!
Be just, my sorrows!—No—'twas not in vain
That gentle Precept taught each sacred Truth;
For Penitence recalls their pow'r again,
And saves that treasure from my blasted youth.
Oh! injur'd Parent!—hadst thou liv'd to bless,
Say! hadst thou still refus'd a Daughter's claim?
She that had died to save thee from distress,
And she who brought thee to the grave with shame!
No!—To thyself alone severely just,
And form'd by Heaven beneficent and mild,
Trembling and wan, and prostrate in the dust,
Thou hadst not spurn'd thy miserable child!
Say! if cold Death should close this hapless eye,
Which once E VANDER watch'd with tend'rest zeal—
When silence shall that eloquence supply,
Which even a heart of adamant must feel.
Oh! will he then a mournful tear bestow,
When o'er the grave shall rise the mould'ring heap?
—Alas! what friendly tongue shall bid me know,
That ev'n E VANDER has his turn to weep?
When the sad Curfew gives its awful toll,
Say, will its hollow summons make thee start
Say, will it shake thy agonizing soul,
And its deep sound be echoed in thy heart?
When all the black parade shall slowly move,
Thy harrow'd soul shall join the weeping throng;
One sacred tear shall pay thy debt to Love—
Oh! save thyself, and thus repair the wrong.
Oh thou! that cou'd to Infamy consign
A peaceful heart, which never knew the name,
Till Gratitude and Folly made it thine!
Think not I ask that Justice from thy hand,
Which injuries like mine must make my due;
The heart which views the ruin it has plann'd,
But feebly feels compassion at the view!
For thee I've lost—what worlds can ne'er supply—
The gen'rous pride and confidence of Youth!
Sweet Innocence upbraids my timid eye,
And Conscience flies the piercing glance of Truth.
In vain my youthful mind was gently fraught
With all paternal tenderness cou'd teach!
With Emulation fir'd—and nobly taught
To love the Excellence it cou'd not reach.
In vain wou'd Precept check the hasty flight,
And bright Example all its force impart—
Precept that wore the language of Delight,
And mixt with sweet Persuasion, gain'd the heart.
In vain Affection—Care—and Thought combin'd
To save the Child of Ruin and Despair!
For Love consum'd the blossoms of my mind,
And Treach'ry blasted all a scene so fair!
Be just, my sorrows!—No—'twas not in vain
That gentle Precept taught each sacred Truth;
For Penitence recalls their pow'r again,
And saves that treasure from my blasted youth.
Oh! injur'd Parent!—hadst thou liv'd to bless,
Say! hadst thou still refus'd a Daughter's claim?
She that had died to save thee from distress,
And she who brought thee to the grave with shame!
No!—To thyself alone severely just,
And form'd by Heaven beneficent and mild,
Trembling and wan, and prostrate in the dust,
Thou hadst not spurn'd thy miserable child!
Say! if cold Death should close this hapless eye,
Which once E VANDER watch'd with tend'rest zeal—
When silence shall that eloquence supply,
Which even a heart of adamant must feel.
Oh! will he then a mournful tear bestow,
When o'er the grave shall rise the mould'ring heap?
—Alas! what friendly tongue shall bid me know,
That ev'n E VANDER has his turn to weep?
When the sad Curfew gives its awful toll,
Say, will its hollow summons make thee start
Say, will it shake thy agonizing soul,
And its deep sound be echoed in thy heart?
When all the black parade shall slowly move,
Thy harrow'd soul shall join the weeping throng;
One sacred tear shall pay thy debt to Love—
Oh! save thyself, and thus repair the wrong.
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