He thought, too, what a favour'd clime His gallant bark had left behind; He thought how science there, sublime, Beam'd her full radiance on the mind. Though destined in a stranger's land, Detain'd from all he held most dear, Yet one kind hand, benevolent, Was found the gloomy hours to cheer. O, how consoling is the eye Of him who comes to soothe our woes; O, what relief those cares supply Which a kind, watchful friend bestows. When from this hand full well he found How much can lenient kindness do The generous Briton strives with care His drooping spirits to renew. Yes, stranger, thou wast kind, humane, With quick assistance prompt to move; To ease the lingering hours of pain, In pity's kind endeavour strove. When sickness o'er thy pallid cheek Had stole the lustre from thine eye, When near the doubtful crisis drew, And life approach'd its latest sigh,-- He moved thee to his own retreat, In his own mansion watch'd thee there; Around thy couch he still remained, Thy drooping heart with hopes to cheer. [Tighe: _Verses Written in Sickness_, stanzas 3-12 (of 15). Alas! for him whose youth has bowed Beneath the oppressive hand of pain; Whose claim to pity disallowed, Bids him the unheeded groan restrain. Alas! for him who droops like me, Who mourns life's fueled vigour flown, But finds no soothing sympathy, No tender cares his loss atone. For him no wakeful eye of love Resists the slumbers health would shed, With kind assistance prompt to move, And gently prop the aching head: With delicate attention paid In hope to minister relief, He sees no sacrifices made; He sees no Mother's anxious grief! But I, poor sufferer, doomed in vain To woo the health which Heaven denied, Though nights of horror, days of pain The baffled opiate's force deride, Yet well I know, and grateful feel, How much can lenient kindness do, From anguish half its darts to steal, And faded Hope's sick smile renew. That love which brightened gayer hours, When light youth danced to pleasure's strain, Exerts even yet unwearied powers, The sweet support of nights of pain. Oh! how consoling is the eye Of the dear friend that shares our woes! Oh! what relief those cares supply, Which watchful, active love bestows! And these are mine! -- Shall I then dare To murmur at so mild a lot? Nor dwell on comforts still my share With thankful and contented thought? Though destined to the couch of pain, Though torn from pleasures once too dear, Around that couch shall still remain The love that every pain can cheer.