To a BROTHER,

Who had been afflicted with a long Sickness.

By CHARLES LLOYD.

My Brother thou hast led a weary life,
A life of pain, and sleeplessness and woe,
So that thy mind pent in its burthen'd flesh
Hath often paus'd, and slept a sleep like death!
My Brother and my Friend-what shall I say
(Now that the weary glooms of winter come,
And find thee still stretch'd on a sick-man's bed)
To give thee aught of solace? Far from thee,
I hear the drippings of the twilight shower,
And the faint bodings of the wind which dwells
With nights of winter; far from thee I draw
My evening curtain, trim my fire, and light
My solitary taper; yet I think

On former days, and scenes of former love,
On many pleasures, and on many pains,
That we have felt in common: these will still
Croud in the visions of my soul, and bring

To my hearth's quietness, (when nought is heard

Save the faint startings of the ember, now
Glowing with permanent red) some shapes that live,
Like fleecy clouds in April sun-beams drest;

Till suddenly the meditating part

Will question of their being.

Troubled much

And visited by sorrows many and hard,

Thou'rt jostled through life's strange disorder'd mass !
That miracle which makes a wise man pause
At every day's report. Nor troubled less,
Thou wildlier buffetted, and with more strange,
And various shiftings, he, who fain this hour
Would dedicate his heart to thee! my Friend,
Different the means, though verging to one end;
Thou lyest on the bed of pain, and feel'st

The heart's faint fever, and the sickening thought
Pall'd with all living things; and I have known
A sudden pause, even in their mid career
Of joy and hope, I have been vex'd with wounds
Man may not heal, belike to both the same
Instruction given, the quietness induced,
The acquiescence to the will supreme,
-The sovereign spirit sanctifying pain,

And mingling balsams with the cup of death.

September 27, 1798.

Margaret, who is the old man crossing the stile in the pea-field,
Laden with huge chests strapp'd to his shoulder and bending beneath them?

MARGARET.

O'tis a pedlaring jew, by the long white beard on his bosom.

See! he is weary and sits down, flings off his hat on the herbage,

Plucks of the cool fresh leaves of the walnut to wipe from his forehead
Warm dews. Hard is the labor of trudging through dust in the sunshine,
Now that the weather is sultry and no breeze plays on the clover.

HENRY.

When he is rested the foot-path cannot but bring him to us here.

HENRY.

Hither my friend, be not lazy by noon, for the times go hard now.
Fetch us a half-pint, Madge, of the home-brew'd: Isaac is thirsty.
What have you got in your great box? let's have some bargains to bid for.

ISAAC.

HENRY.

ISAAC.

MARGARET.

ISAAC.