The Wilmingtonian., 1823-09-18
An Ode to Sickness.

tiy young lady, who, for many years had Ian.
4Exuished under confirmed and hopeless con.
sssumption.
Nor to the rosy maid whom former hours
beheld me covet fondly, tune now
The melancholy Tyre. No more seek
Thy aid, Hygeia, sought so long in vain:
.l3lt Ills to thee, Oh Sickness tis to thee
FNVake the silent string accept the lay.
Thou art no tyrant waving thy fierce scourgc
0tr unresisting victims-but nymph
Wn;ld though mourniul mien, upon whose brow
Fatie. e sits smiling, and whose heavy eye,
Thoa III moist with tears, is always fixed on Iieavn.
hou wrapst the world in gloom, but thou canst tell
1Ofworlds where all is sunshine, and at length,
WI IN through this vale of sorrow thou hast led
sHky patient sufferers, cheering them the while
AAvt4, many smile of promise, thy pale hand
l1nlocks the bowers Of everlasting rest,
Where Deaths kind angel waits to dry their tears
And crown them with his amaranthine flowers.
AYet have known thee long, and have felt
All that thou hast Of sorrow Many tear
HAS fallen on my cold cheek, and many sigh,
fGsIled forth by thee, has sweld my aching breast
YET still I bless thee. Oh thou Christening power
4br ALL bless tbee-I'hou hast taught my soul
10 rest upon itsef-to look beyond
The narrow bounds of Time and fix its hopes
On the sure basis OF Eternity.
Meanwhile even in this transtory scene,
OF what hast thou deprived me Has thy hans
IClosed up the book of knowledge, drawn a veil
IO'er the fair face of nature, or destroyed
'The tender pleasures of domestic lite
Ah no It's thine to call forth in the heart
Each better feeling; thou awakenest there
That uncon6ned Philanthropy which feels
Fol all the unhappy-that warm sympathy
Which casting every selfish care aside
Finds its own bliss in seeing others best;
1hat Melancholy, tender yet sublime,
Which, feeling all the nothingness of earth,
lExalts the soul to Heaven: and more than these
Dat pure DEVOTION which even in an hour
0agonzing pain can fill the eyes with
ears OF ecstacy-such tears perhaps
~ angels love to she'd
These are thy gifts, Oh scknessl these to me
Aou bastvouchsafed, and taught me how to prize
HMalmy soul shrink from aught thou hast ordalnd
pll e'er envy the luxurious train
Mound whose path Prosperity hath strewn
Hsr giltled toys All let them still pursue
TAe shining triaes never shall they know
safh pure and holy pleasures as await
The heart refined by suffering. Not to them
(es Fancy sing her wild romantic song.
az not TOR them her glowing hand undraws
NJ sacred veil that hides the angelic world.
tAey hear not in the music Of the wind
cMestia voices, that in whispers sweet,
to the flowers, the young and bashfu flowers
Aey see not at the shadowy hour of eve
ascending spirits, who on silver wing
de through the air, and TO their harps divine
IN soft notes the vesper hymn OF praise
pausing for moment as they turn
eur radiant eyes on this polluted scene,
Pr on their golden harps the plying tear
Rsperi,y count thy gifts no more
thine Hygeia yet to thee
eaihe one fervent prayer-attend the strain.
pr my faded brow, thy hand prepare
pc future wreath, let me the gift resign,
nsfer the rosy garland, bid it bloom
|und the temples of that friend beloved,
whose maternal bosom even now
my aching head, and as mark
smile that plays upon her speaking face,
get that have ever shed tear.
young lady, named Madamoisel
Puroth, only nine years of age, has
s,lust arrived in this country, who's
prmance, on the piano forte has, W
rstand, astonished the most celebra
performers on that instrument.