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Poem by Thomas Gent
Sonnet How droops the wretch whom adverse fates pursue, While sad experience, from his aching sight, Sweeps the fair prospects of unprov'd delight Which flattering friends and flattering fancies drew. When want assails his solitary shed, When dire distraction's horrent eye-ball glares, Seen 'mid the myriad of tumultuous cares That shower their shafts on his devoted head. Then, ere despair usurp his vanquish'd heart, Is there a power, whose influence benign Can bid his head in pillow'd peace recline, And from his breast withdraw the barbed dart? There is-sweet Hope! misfortune rests on thee- Unswerving anchor of humanity!
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