INGRATITUDE, how deadly is thy smart
Proceeding from the Form we fondly love!
How light, compared, all other sorrows prove!
THOU shed'st a Night of Woe, from whence depart
The gentle beams of Patience, that the heart
'Mid lesser ills, illume.—Thy Victims rove
Unquiet as the Ghost that haunts the Grove
Where MURDER spilt the life-blood.—O! thy dart
Kills more than Life,—e'en all that makes Life dear;
Till we “the sensible of pain” wou'd change
For Phrenzy, that defies the bitter tear;
Or wish, in kindred callousness, to range
Where moon-ey'd IDIOCY, with fallen lip,
Drags the loose knee, and intermitting step.
July 1773.