OH Sensibility, thou dangerous gift,
Which, like Pandora’s fabled box, contains
Compounded good and ill, the fountain head
And source whence flow the sweet and bitter springs,
The pleasures and the pains of human life;
Exquisite joys, but woe more exquisite!
Whoe’er possess’d thee yet, that did not wish,
In some unhappy moments of their lives,
They could exchange thy quick and throbbing pulse,
For the dull sluggish tide which scarcely flows
Along the veins of torpid apathy-
Thy keen suceptibility of soul,
For the cold marble of indifference?
Oh! ye who have from nature’s hand receiv’d
That glowing spark of Promethean fire;
That ar dent inextinguishable flame,
Which not the pressure of adversity,
Nor poverty’s benumbing touch can quench,
If doom’d through desolate and rugged paths
Of life’s obscurest wilderness to toil,
How much have you to dread and to endure;
Much from the common casualties of life,
Untoward accidents, beneath whose weight
The man of fervent feelings soonest bends;
Much from the strength of your own warm affections,
Believing all sincere, and doubting none;
And oft, perhaps, mistaking warm professions
For firm and lasting friendship, only find
Repulsive coldness where you look’d for welcome;
And much from disappointed hope, whose smile
With fairy sunshine for a moment gilds
Your dreary views, then vanishes for ever.
Ye sons of sorrow, thus condemn’d to pine,
Unknown, unpitied, by a busy world,
Heaven be your friend, when other friends you’ve none.
And if enshrin’d within a female frame
That spirit dwells, oh! how much more unfit
To struggle through the thorny paths of life,
If she can find no kind and generous friend
In whom her confidence she may repose,
Her guardian and protector through a world
Where oft her weakness will require support.
Poor Mary! hapless orphan, where art thou?
Thy heart was form’d for tenderness and love;
Thy mind a beam of light breaking through clouds,
Shone like a meteor, with unsteady ray,
Irregular, and bright, but shone in vain.
And now perhaps its energy is lost,
And all its powers are buried in despair;
Perhaps thy struggles with misfortune past,
From life’s rough storm thou hast a shelter found,
A lasting peaceful home within the grave.
If such thy fate ill-fated maid farewell;
There is a world where sensibility,
So oft on earth the fruitful source of grief,
Will be the source of purest happiness.
(Isabella Lickbarrow)
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Based on Topics: Love Poems, Man Poems, Life Poems, World Poems, Light Poems, Sadness Poems, Soul Poems, Joy & Excitement Poems, Heaven Poems, Friendship Poems, Fire PoemsBased on Keywords: sensibility, professions, untoward, obscurest, benumbing, casualties