PATIENCE , pale maid! that near my beating heart
Dost drooping sit, and oft with gentle hand
Wilt, softly stealing o’er my breast, impart
Thy healing balms, with tender soothing bland!
Yet the warm tear still trembles on my cheek,
Deep swells the sigh that will not be supprest:
Ah! nor thy plaintive look, nor accents meek,
Can still the anguish of the feeling breast.
Yet, silent mourner, I entreat thy stay;
Still to my soul thy gentle soothing lend;
Nor let misfortune ever know that day
When Patience ceases to be Sorrow’s friend.
(Mrs. Walter Spencer)
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