On SICKNESS. Mary Leapor Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T127827 p. 413 K101776.000 Leapor, Mrs. (Mary), 1722-1746. Poems upon several occasions: By Mrs. Leapor of Brackley in Northamptonshire. London printed: and sold by J. Roberts 1748 pp. 263-266. 15,[5],282p. ; 8⁰.

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On SICKNESS . WHEN Heav'n's almighty King prepares , The angry Shaft to throw ; Ev'n Fortitude itself despairs To bear the deadly Blow . Cold Tremors shake each fainting Limb , That weeps a sickly Dew ; The Features , chang'd to pale and dim , Resign their chearful Hue . No more soft Eloquence shall flow , Nor dress the silent Tongue ; But the dull Heart refuse to glow , Tho' charm'd by melting Song . Those laughing Eyes , that lately shone So sprightly and so gay , Sunk down with Sickness , faint and wan , Decline the piercing Day . And scarcely bear a chearful Beam , To light the drooping Soul ; While round the weak afflicted Brain Romantick Vapours roll . Deceitful Earth and all its Joys Elude our grasping Hands : Tho' Nature all her Skill employs , To bind the failing Bands . Death drives us to the horrid Steep ; And while we vainly mourn , He pointing shews th'unmeasur'd Deep , From whence we ne'er return . There the grim Spectre , with a Smile , His panting Victim sees : Who fain wou'd linger here a while , To swallow nauseous Lees . Who Death's great Empire wou'd dispute , And hugs the gilded Pill , Not knowing That his faithful Mute , Whose Business is to kill . The lost , the slipp'ry Hold to save , To lenient Arts we run ; They cast us headlong on the Wave , And we are twice undone . The Pow'r who stamp'd the reas'ning Mind , Its Partner can restore ; There we a lasting Cordial find , And learn to sigh no more . But if the slow-consuming Ill Shou'd lead us to the Grave , Our Faith persuades us that he will The trembling Spirit save . O thou , whose Bounty all things taste , Whose Anger none can bear ; Revive the melancholy Breast , Nor let the Wretch despair .