On thee, in pensive mood reclined, Soon from those waking dreams he woke, a life in death, Denied a bubble and a breath. Stript of his fondest, dearest claim, Yet other secret griefs had he, Whate'er those pangs from me conceal'd, To thee in midnight groans reveal’d; They stung remembrance to despair ; “ A wounded Spirit who can bear!" Meanwhile Disease, with slow decay, Moulder'd his feeble frame away; And as his evening sun declined, The shadows deepen’d o'er his mind. What doubts and terrors then possess'd The dark dominion of his breast ! How did delirious fancy dwell On Madness, Suicide, and Hell! There was on earth no Power to save : -But, as he shudder'd o'er the grave, He saw from realms of light descend The friend of him who has no friend, Religion ! Her almighty breath Rebuked the winds and waves of death; F She bade the storm of frenzy cease, VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE JOSEPH BROWNĖ, OF LOTHERSDALE, ONE OF THE PEOPLE CALLED QUAKERS, Who had suffered a long Confinement in the Castle of York, and Loss of all his worldly Property, for Conscience Sake. Spirit, leave thine house of clay; Thus thy GUARDIAN ANGEL spoke, |