Blest be thy pow’rful Pen, whoe’er thou art, Thou skill’d, great _Moulder_ of the master’d Heart! Where hast thou lain conceal’d!---or why thought fit, At this dire Period, to _unveil_ thy Wit? O! late befriended Isle! had this broad Blaze, With earlier Beamings, bless’d our _Fathers_ Days, The Pilot Radiance, pointing out the Source, Whence public Health derives its [5th: “moral”] {vital} Course, Each timely Draught some healing Power had shown, Ere gen’ral _Gangrene_ blacken’d, to the _Bone_. But, fest’ring now, beyond all Sense of Pain, ’Tis hopeless: and the Helper’s Hand is _vain_. Sweet _Pamela_! forever-blooming Maid! Thou dear, unliving, yet immortal, Shade! Why are thy Virtues scatter’d to the Wind? Why are thy Beauties flash’d upon the Blind? What, tho’ thy flutt’ring Sex might learn, from thee, That _Merit_ forms a Rank, above _Degree_? That Pride, too conscious, falls, from ev’ry _Claim_, While humble Sweetness climbs, beyond its _Aim_? What, tho’ Religion, smiling from thy Eyes, Shews her _plain_ Power, and charms without _Disguise_? What, tho’ thy warmly-pleasing moral Scheme Gives livelier Rapture, than the Loose can _dream_? What, tho’ thou build’st, by thy persuasive Life, Maid, Child, Friend, Mistress, Mother, Neighbour, Wife? Tho’ Taste like thine each Void of Time, can fill, Unsunk by Spleen, unquicken’d by Quadrille! What, tho’ ’tis thine to bless the lengthen’d Hour! Give _Permanence_ to Joy, and _Use_ to Pow’r? Lend late-felt Blushes to the _Vain_ and _Smart_? And squeeze cramp’d Pity from the _Miser_’s Heart? What, tho’ ’tis thine to hush the Marriage Breeze, Teach Liberty to _tire_, and Chains to _please_? Thine tho’, from Stiffness to divest Restraint, And, to the Charmer, reconcile the _Saint_? Tho’ Smiles and Tears obey thy moving Skill, And Passion’s ruffled Empire waits thy Will? Tho’ thine the fansy’d Fields of flow’ry Wit, Thine, Art’s whole Pow’r, in Nature’s Language writ! Thine, to convey strong Thought, with modest Ease, And, copying _Converse_, teach its _Style_ to please? Tho’ thine each Virtue, that a _God_ cou’d lend? Thine, ev’ry Help, that ev’ry Heart, can mend? ’Tis Thine _in vain_!----Thou wak’st a _dying_ Land; And lift’st _departed Hope_, with fruitless Hand: Death has NO CURE. Thou hast _mis-tim’d_ thy Aim; _Rome_ had her GOTHS: and all, beyond, was _Shame_. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * William Andrews Clark Memorial Library: University of California THE AUGUSTAN REPRINT SOCIETY _General Editors_ R. C. BOYS University of Michigan RALPH COHEN University of California, Los Angeles VINTON A. DEARING University of California, Los Angeles LAWRENCE CLARK POWELL Wm. Andrews Clark Memorial Library _Corresponding Secretary_: Mrs. EDNA C. DAVIS, Wm. Andrews Clark Memorial Library