Wrote the week before my Father was to be informed of my Brother's death.

Wrote the week before my Father was to be informed of my Brother's death.

WHEN restless — nights and grief return, With anxious — mind and sickness worn, His silver hairs revere.

In anguish — of a Father mourns, My Son — my son — no more returns, But left on distant plains.

When bow'd with age — and trembling pale, Around him wait — nor prayers avail, But stand in weeping eyes.

Thus storms do rend — the wint'ry sky; See roofs and trees before them fly, Yet oft a ealm succeeds.

As mildest show'rs a calm invite, In rest and peace his slumbers meet; His guardian children by.

In gentle exercise the day, And friends to charm the even away, In piety and ease.