183 
Whilst thou, when we do suffer 
The doom we’ve earn’d too well, 
O’er present woes and past 
With kindly zeal doth cast 
Thy bland oblivious spell. 
And then, ah ! then, thy story, 
That puts the rose to shame; 
For who her wreath hath worn, 
Nor felt how sharp the thorn 
Which guards her graceful stem ? 
Whilst e’en to him who wounds thee*, 
With meek forgiveness, thou 
Dost yield a precious balm 
His weary frame to calm 
In sickness or in woe. 
But, fare thee well! thy annals 
Bid holier memories rise; 
I turn me to a page, 
Which should alone engage 
All hearts, and fix all eyes. 
See the description of the manner in which opium is procured, p. 181. 
N 4 
