Did foul Ingratitude her poisons pour?

If thy distress such aggravation knew,
Thy first reverse could such perdition wait;
Well might Despair thy generous heart subdue,
And Desperation close the scene of fate.

Yet while Distraction urged her purpose dire,
Rose not, at Nature's interposed command,
The sacred claims of Brother, Husband, Sire,
To win the weapon from thy lifted hand?

Ah, yes! and ere that agony was o'er,
Ere yet thy soul its last resolve embraced,
What pangs could equal those thy breast that tore,
Thy breast with Nature's tenderest feelings graced?

Those only which, at thy accomplish'd fate,
That home display'd, thy smiles were wont to bless;
That dreadful scene what language can relate,
What words describe that exquisite distress.

The Muse recedes--in Grief's domestic scene
Th' intrusive gaze prophanes the tears that flow:
Drop, Pity! there thy hallowed veil between;
Guard, Silence! there the sacredness of woe.

Nor let the sectarist, whose faith austere
Pretends alone to point th' eternal road;
Proud of his creed, pronounce with voice severe,