Chill'd by unkind Honora's alter'd eye,
“Why droops my heart with fruitless woes forlorn,”
Thankless for much of good?--what thousands, born
To ceaseless toil beneath this wintry sky,
Or to brave deathful Oceans surging high,
Or fell Disease's fever'd rage to mourn,
How blest to _them_ wou'd seem _my_ destiny!
How _dear_ the comforts my rash sorrows scorn!--
Affection is repaid by causeless hate!
A plighted love is chang'd to cold disdain!
Yet suffer not thy wrongs to shroud thy fate,
But turn, my Soul, to blessings which remain;
And let this truth the wise resolve create,
THE HEART ESTRANGED NO ANGUISH CAN REGAIN.
_July 1773._