Grief, thou hast lost an ever ready Friend
Now that the cottage spinning-wheel is mute;
And Care—a Comforter that best could suit
Her froward mood, and softliest reprehend;
And Love—a Charmer’s voice, that used to lend,
More efficaciously than aught that flows
From harp or lute, kind influence to compose
The throbbing pulse,—else troubled without end:
Ev’n Joy could tell, Joy craving truce and rest
From her own overflow, what power sedate
On those revolving motions did await
Assiduously, to sooth her aching breast;
And—to a point of just relief—abate
The mantling triumphs of a day too blest.