To Lady Catharine Murray, During Her Recovery from an Illness, Occasioned by Her Cloaths Catching Fire, 1781

HAD our great tragic Bard (whose master-hand
The patient VIOLA'S sweet portrait plann'd)
Beheld fair CATHARINE to pain consign'd,
Yet tow'ring o'er her fate with strength of mind,
In other colours he had then display'd
The pleasing image of his patient Maid!
Not with dim tints of yellow and of green,
Would he have sicklied o'er the sufferer's mien:
But in a shading cap that veils the face,
Half-stealing from the sight each soften'd grace,
He would have pictur'd to the stedfast view
A cheek a little pal'd with languor's hue;
An eye that, beaming with the rays of sense,
Speaks to the soul an artless eloquence,
And seems a look of gratitude to throw
On those whose feelings share the sufferer's woe:
And last her lips (whose blushes well display
The glowing colour of the ruby's ray)
Where Patience dwells, refusing to complain,
With Resignation that can smile at pain!