On The Death Of My Friend, Mrs. Robinson

AND hath thy soul forsook her suffering clay?
Doth the chill tomb enwrap thy grief-worn frame?
Closed are those eyes which beam'd with Friendship's ray!
And cold that breast where glow'd Affection's flame!
Fond memory bids thy virtues still be dear,
As when my heart first felt their sacred power;
And still those scenes recalls, with many a tear,
When mutual kindness sooth'd the pensive hour.
When Friendship strove thy tortur'd mind to calm,
Thy thoughts on nobler prospects to engage;
Sought o'er thy wounds to pour Religion's balm,
Which mortal misery can alone assuage.
Too keen thy sensibility of pain,
Life's sharpest ills thy breast was doom'd to feel;
And Friendship's softest sympathies were vain,
The poignant anguish of thy soul to heal.
Repeated woes on woes o'erwhelm'd thy heart,
That heart too tender to repel the storm;
Death mark'd thee for his own, he aim'd a dart,
When lingering sickness seized thy withering form.
Thy shatter'd bark from Life's rough sea retired,
Hath found that port where pleasure never ends;
Those realms to which thy hopes had long aspired,
To meet thy husband, parent, child, and friends.