INGRATITUDE, how deadly is thy smart
Proceeding from the Form we fondly love!
How light, compared, all _other_ sorrows prove!
THOU shed'st a _Night_ of Woe, from whence depart
The gentle beams of Patience, that the heart
'Mid _lesser_ ills, illume.--_Thy_ Victims rove
Unquiet as the Ghost that haunts the Grove
Where MURDER spilt the life-blood.--O! thy dart
Kills _more_ than Life,--e'en all that makes Life dear;
Till we “the sensible of pain” wou'd change
For Phrenzy, that defies the bitter tear;
Or wish, in kindred callousness, to range
Where moon-ey'd IDIOCY, with fallen lip,
Drags the loose knee, and intermitting step.
_July 1773._