VISITOR.
The poor Sir Eustace!—Yet his Hope,
Leads him to think of Joys again;
And when his Earthly Visions droop,
His Views of Heavenly Kind remain:—
But whence that meek and humbled Strain,
That Spirit wounded, lost, resign’d;
Would not so proud a Soul disdain
The Madness of the poorest Mind?
PHYSICIAN.
No! for the more he swell’d with Pride,
The more he felt Misfortune’s Blow;
Disgrace and Grief he could not hide,
And Poverty had laid him low:
Thus Shame and Sorrow working slow,
At length this humble Spirit gave;
Madness on these began to grow,
And bound him to his Fiends a Slave.
Though the wild Thoughts had touch’d his Brain,
Then was he free:—So, forth he ran;
To soothe or threat, alike were vain;
He spake of Fiends; look’d wild and wan;
Year after year, the hurried Man
Obey’d those Fiends from place to place;
Till his religious Change began
To form a frenzied Child of Grace.
For, as the Fury lost its Strength,
The Mind repos’d; by slow Degrees,
Came lingering Hope, and brought at length,
To the tormented Spirit, Ease:
This Slave of Sin, whom Fiends could seize,
Felt or believ’d their Power had end;—
“’Tis faith,” he cried, “my Bosom frees,
“And now my Saviour is my Friend.”
But ah! though Time can yield Relief,
And soften Woes it cannot cure;
Would we not suffer Pain and Grief,
To have our Reason sound and sure?
Then let us keep our Bosoms pure,
Our Fancy’s favourite Flights suppress;
Prepare the Body to endure,
And bend the Mind to meet Distress;
And then His Guardian Care implore,
Whom Dæmons dread and Men adore.
