Urged by my duty, I have ventur'd here;
But how for Douglas can I shed the tear?
When real griefs the burden'd bosom press,
Can it raise sighs feign'd sorrows to express?
In vain will art, from nature, help implore,
When nature for herself exhausts her store.
The tree cut down on which she clung and grew,
Behold, the propless woodbine bends to you;
Your soft'ning pow'r will spread protection round;
And, though she droops, may raise her from the ground."