The Gentle Soul

Ye gentle souls! ye love-devoted fair!
Who, passing by, to Pity's voice incline,
O stay awhile and hear me! then declare
If there was ever grief that equals mine.

There was a woman to whose sacred breast
Faith had retired, where Honor fixed his throne;
Pride, though upheld by Virtue, she represt:
Ye gentle souls! that woman was my own.

Beauty was more than beauty in her face;
Grace was in all she did, in all she said—
In sorrow as in pleasure there was grace:
Ye gentle souls! that gentle soul is fled.
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