94
APRIL.
Yet, as stern Duty bids, with faint endeavour
I drag on life, contending with my woe,
Tho' conscious Misery still repeats, that never
My soul one pleasurable hour shall know.
Lost in the tomb, when Hope no more appeases
The fester'd wounds that prompt the eternal sigh,
Grief, the most fatal of the heart's diseases,
Soon teaches, whom it fastens on, to die.
The wretch undone, for pain alone existing,
The abject dread of Death shall sure subdue,
And far from his decisive hand resisting,
Rejoice to bid a world like this, adieu!
