Classic Poem

From weak'ning Child-bed scarcely rais'd,
When by a raging Fever seiz'd,
Death star'd me in the Face;
I saw the Tyrant, 'fore me stand,
His Scythe held firm in either Hand,
To finish my sad Race.
But Time appear'd, and said, that Fate,
Wou'd give my Life a longer Date,
And shew'd my Glass renew'd;
Said Death, " Then I'll to Pery go,
" His fleeting Soul now waits the Blow. "
But Time his Steps pursu'd,

Again he bid him stay his Hand,
For Pery , by Divine Command,
Was as a Blessing giv'n!
That uplift Hands, and weeping Eyes,
An Incense grateful to the Skies!
Had gain'd this Boon of Heaven.

The Fatherless and Widows Cause
He pleads, and with Divine Applause
Stands Champion for the Poor:
And now, in Mercy to this Isle,
From Happiness he's spar'd a While,
Where his Reward's secure.