Oh! if sometimes thy spotless form descend,
To me thy aid, thou guardian Genius, lend! 60
When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms,
When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms,
In silent whisperings purer thoughts impart,
And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart;
Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before, 65
Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more.
That awful form, which, so the Heavens decree,
Must still be loved and still deplored by me,