A mind less cheer'd by rays of truth divine,
A heart more cold, enchain'd by Greenland frost?
Ah! can the wretch e'er dwell in purest sky,
Where God's perfections all in glory shine?
Is he not blinded, cheated, wilder'd, lost?
44. ON THE DEATH OF MY DAUGHTER. [(notes)]
Poor man, who name of Father dost not know,
Nor e'er hast felt that bond of sweetest might,