O’er our chill limbs the thrilling terrors creep,
Th’ entranc’d passions still their vigils keep;
Whilst the deep sighs, responsive to the song,
Sound through the silence of the trembling throng.
But purer raptures lighten’d from thy face,
And spread o’er all thy form a holier grace;
When from the daughter’s breast the father drew
The life he gave, and mix’d the big tear’s dew.
Nor was it thine th’ heroic strain to roll,
With mimic feelings, foreign from the soul;