And number’d her for ever with the dead.
Oh! matchless cruelty! Thou haggard foe!
Grim king of terrors! Ghastly prince of woe!
Virtue immaculate thus to requite!
And on the innocent to wreak thy spite!
To blast the rose just op’ning into bloom,
And hide its faded glories in the tomb!
O! could I touch, with sympathetic smart,
The tender feelings of the melting heart;
Then would I long on the dire subject dwell,