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Till left of Heav'n, and preſs'd for daily bread,
Each gaz'd at each, and hung-the ſickly head.
Two little ſons, my hope, my humble pride,
Too weak to combat, languiſh'd, wail'd, and died.
Stretch'd on the deck the breathleſs cherubs lay,
As buds put forth in April's ſtormy day,
Not Emma's ſelf remain'd my woes to cheer.
Borne with her babes upon a wat'ry bier.
Five days ſhe ſtruggled with the fever's fire.
The ſixth ſad morn beheld my faint expire.
Theſe trembling lips, her lips convulſive preſt,
Theſe trembling hands ſuſtain'd her ſinking breaſt;
Theſe trembling hands diſcharg'd each mournful rite,
Sooth'd her laſt pang, and ſeal'd her dying ſight.
To the ſame deep their dear remains were given,
Their mingled ſpirits wing'd their flight to heaven.
One only daughter, in life's vernal pride.
Surviv'd the wreck that whelm'd my all beſide.
Snatch'd from the peace of death, and loathing day,
On bleak Henlopen's coaſt the mourner lay.
Theſe aged arms her languid body bore
Through the rude breakers to that ruder ſhore.
Mercy, ſweet Heav'n! and did the pitying ſtorm
Spare but for deeper ills that angel form!
Bleſt had we ſunk unheeded in the wave,
And mine and Lucy's been one common grave.
But I am loſt, a worn-out, ruin'd man,
And finds complete what tyranny began.
Much had I heard, from men unus'd to feign,
Of this New World, and Freedom's gentle reign.
'Twas fam'd that here, by no proud maſter ſpurn'd,
The poor man ate ſecure the bread he earn'd;
That verdant vales were fed by brighter ſtreams
Than my own Medway, or the ſilver Thames;
Fields without bounds ſpontaneous fruitage bore,
