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Ye com'rades place me on my bier." The morrow found him stiff & pale. Sorrowing [[underline]] the muse relates [[/underline]] the tale. by Mr Pratt, author of Emma Corbett Some certain good from every evil springs Thus preach divines, & thus the poet sings Some balmy comfort softens human care And nought but determin'd vice should despair; Doth Virtue weep? 'tis heavens high will to prove The powers of patience pity Faith and love. Doth Heywood mourn, his Mary brings releif And almost charms away the sense of greif Watches each motion of the languid Eye Prevents the wish & soothes the rising sigh. Blest as she is by nature with each grace Each wondrous magic of a Woman's face She flies from all [[underline]] that [[/underline]] magic well might claim, Her husband's happiness, her dearest fame, Each sweet attraction shewn for him alone Her undivided heart, his envied throne! O say the monarch of that heart, when health [[deletion]] when health [[/deletion]] revisits thee, how infinite thy wealth!
