Amelia to Eucrates, While on Her Death-Bed

ERE these sad Lines arrive, which now I send
The fondest Husband and the truest Friend,
Those tender Titles will no longer prove
The living Tokens of our mutual Love;
No more furvive.—For since that fatal Day,
When from my Bosom thou wert torn away
The rigid Call of Honor to obey,
My Malady's increas'd; my End I see:
And Health, and Joy, and Life, all fled with thee.

THAT fond Regard, I owe the best of Men,
Alone enables me to use my Pen;
The Pain to write I scarce can undergo,
And my Tears trickle where the Ink shou'd flow.
Yet the sole Terror Death presents to View,
Oh much-lov'd Consort, is, to part from you.
Else wherefore should I fear his sure Behest?
—No unrepenting Folly loads my Breast;
No Guilt inexpiate I leave behind,
No vicious Love, that dares pollute my Mind.
But in reflecting on those tender Hours,
When Love, and Peace, and Happiness were ours,
I re-enjoy our ev'ry Pleasure past;
And sigh, to think they can no longer last.
—Is this a Crime? to wish their lasting Stay,
And strive to put the Stroke of Death away?
No—sure 'tis Piety's and Virtue's Task,
For such Enjoyments Length of Days to ask;
Those rapt'rous Moments once more to redeem,
When Love, and Love alone was all our Theme;
When social Tenderness approv'd the Flame,
And Friendship sanctify'd a Husbands Name.

SINCE 'tis not ours t'explore the Work of Fate,
But descant darkly on that future State,
Where Vice shall meet it's due proportion'd Pain,
And Virtue lasting Happiness attain,
Why may we not (t'alleviate the Strife
'Twixt Hope and Fear, when we resign this Life,)
At least indulge a Wish, that we may know,
Each Stroke that's aim'd at Mortals here below?
And be employ'd perhaps, to guide their Ways,
With whom in Life we pass'd our guiltless Days?
—May I, o'er thee a Guardian Angel plac'd,
Unseen, allay the Conflicts in thy Breast!
No more, as now, a weak and fearful Mate,
To sigh, and wish away the Stroke of Fate;
But meet Misfortune with undaunted Eye,
Rush boldly on, and Death's worst Pow'r defy!
Incapable of Wound thy Steps attend,
Thy lovely Face in Battle to defend!
To view each threat'ning Danger from afar,
And shield thee in the dreadful Hour of War!

OR, when a Fever rages thro' the Veins,
Torn, and inflam'd with agonizing Pains,
Obsequious to tend the gloomy Bed,
And, in the drooping Moment, raise thy Head;
Infuse the Balm of Patience in thy Breast,
In Slumber close thine Eyes, and watch thy Rest!
No greater Happiness can I implore;
Be this my future Lot!—I ask no more.

BY these Ideas to my Fate resign'd,
I smile at Death, and cheer my languid Mind.
But Oh! your Torture, when you must deplore
Your lost Amelia—your's alas! no more!—
Revives my Torment, tears my lab'ring Heart;
Now, now I feel what Anguish 'tis to part!
Your Woes alone too fatally declare
That Death has Terrors, and that I can fear!

BUT hold—my Tenderness has rais'd a Pain,
Which in oblivion ever should remain.
Be dumb my Love!—yet can I give relief,
Or waft one Comfort to assuage thy Grief!
No—Consolation will in Vain be sent
By her whose Loss your gen'rous Tears lament.
Cease then—in Silence be my Pains exprest!
My Moments now are short—Oh! guess the rest—
If I'm myself, my latest Breath shall flow
In Pray'rs for thee—the least of what I owe.
No more thy much-lov'd Image shall I view;
No longer sigh, my Life, my Soul, Adieu!