LAUD

Prejudged by foes determined not to spare,

An old weak Man for vengeance thrown aside,

Laud,“in the painful art of dying” tried,

( Like a poor bird entangled in a snare

Whose heart still flutters, though his wings forbear

To stir in useless struggle ) hath relied

On hope that conscious innocence supplied,

And in his prison breathescelestial air.

Why tarries then thy chariot?Wherefore stay,

O Death! the ensanguined yet triumphant wheels,

Which thou prepar'st, full often, to convey

( What time a State with madding faction reels )

The Saint or Patriot to the world that heals

All wounds, all perturbations doth allay?