All cold the hand that sooth'd Woe's weary head!
All quench'd the eye the pitying tear that shed!
All mute the voice whose pleasing accents stole,
Infusing balm into the rankled soul! —
O Death, why arm with cruelty thy power,
And spare the weed, yet lop the lovely flower!
Why fly thy shafts in lawless error driven!
To Virtue then no more the care of Heaven! —