Thee, meek-eyed Pity, eloquently fair,
Clasp’d to her bosom, with a mother’s care;
And, as she lov’d thy kindred form to trace,
The slow smile wander’d o’er her pallid face,
For never yet did mortal voice impart
Tones more congenial to the sadden’d heart;
Whether to rouse the sympathetic glow,
Thou pourest lone Monimia’s tale of wo;
Or happy clothest, with funereal vest,
The bridal loves that wept in Juliet’s breast.