With earlier Beamings, bless’d our Fathers Days,
The Pilot Radiance, pointing out the Source,
Whence public Health derives its vital Course,
Each timely Draught some healing Power had shown,
Ere gen’ral Gangrene blacken’d, to the Bone.
But, fest’ring now, beyond all Sense of Pain,
’Tis hopeless: and the Helper’s Hand is vain.
Sweet Pamela! forever-blooming Maid!
Thou dear, unliving, yet immortal, Shade!
Why are thy Virtues scatter’d to the Wind?