POET-R Y. 633 
And yield it to some channel’s care, 
With bed as smooth and banks as fair ; 
Where shelter’d from the ruffling gale 
The streams may steal along the vale, 
And safely reach th’ enchanted ground 
Which Keswick’s awful hills surround. 
There, slowly winding, let them stray 
Along the scarcely sloping way, 
Till, tir’d at last, their current dead, 
They sink into their destin’d bed ; 
And shelter’d by yon flow’ry brake, 
Mix, silent, with the peaceful lake. 
These blessings, lovely Brook, be thine ; 
Such be thy course—and such be mine. 
EPiTAPH 
On an Unfortunate young Lady. 
BY THE SAME, 
A LINGERING Struggle of misfortune past, 
Here patient virtue found repose at last ; 
Unprais’d, unknow with cheerful steps she stray’d 
Through life’s bleak wilds and fortunes darkest shade; 
Nor courted fame to lend one friendly ray, 
To gild the dark’ning horrors of the way. 
When fired with hope, or eager for applause, 
The bero suffers in a public cause, 
Unfelt, unheeded, falls misfortune’s dart, 
And fame’s sweet echoes cheer the drooping heart. 
The patriot’s toils immortal laurels yield, 
And death itself is envied in the field. 
Her’s was the humbler, yet severer fate, 
To pine unnoticed in a private state ; 
Her’s were the suff’rings which no laurels bring, 
The gen’rous labours which no muses sing, 
The cares that haunt the parent and the wife, 
And the still sorrows of domestic life. 
