On Seeing an Officer’s Widow Distracted
O wretch! hath Madness cur’d thy dire Despair?
Yes—All thy Sorrows now are light as Air:
No more you mourn your once lov’d Husband’s Fate,
Who bravely perish’d for a thankless State.
For rolling Years thy Piety prevail’d;
At length, quite sunk—thy Hope, thy Patience fail’d:
Distracted now you tread on Life’s last Stage,
Nor feel the Weight of Poverty and Age:
How blest in this, compar’d with those, whose Lot
Dooms them to Miseries, by you forgot!
Now, wild as Winds, you from your Off—spring fly,
Or fright them from you with distracted Eye;
Rove thro’ the Streets; or sing, devoid of Care,
With ratter’d Garments, and dishevell’d Hair;
By hooting Boys to higher Phrenzy fir’d,
At length you fink, by cruel Treatment tir’d,
Sink into Sleep, an Emblem of the Dead,
A Stone thy Pillow, the cold Earth thy Bed.
O tell it not; let none the Story hear,
Lest Britain’s Martial Sons should learn to fear:
And when they next the hostile Wall attack,
Feel the Heart fail, the lifted Arm grow slack;
And pausing cry—Tho’ Death we scorn to dread,
Our Orphan Off—spring, must they pine for Bread?
See their lov’d Mothers into Prisons thrown;
And, unreliev’d, in iron Bondage groan?
BRITAIN, for this impending Ruin dread;
Their Woes call loud for Vengeance on thy Head:
Nor wonder, if Disasters wait your Fleets;
Nor wonder at Complainings in your Streets:
Be timely wise; arrest th’ uplifted Hand,
Ere Pestilence or Famine sweep the Land.
