A quiet victim, and a patient prey;
The one bright view that she had cherish’d dies, 170
And other hope must from the future rise.
She still extends to grief and want her aid,
And by the comfort she imparts, is paid.
Death is her soul’s relief; to him she flies
For consolation that this world denies.
No more to life’s false promises she clings, }
She longs to change this troubled state of things, }
Till every rising morn the happier prospect brings. }