Forlorn Feelings. Poem by Susan Evance

WHERE is the gentle hand to pour
The balm of Pity o'er my heart!
To sigh its aching sorrows o'er,
And sacred sympathy impart?

Ah me! unfriended and alone,
I wander through life's scene of woe;
Unheard I breathe the plaintive moan,
Unseen my tears of anguish flow.

'Tis not that desart scenes are spread
Around my solitary feet;
No- amid' crouded paths I tread,
And many a fellow-mortal meet.

But what, alas! are all to me?
The desart lies within my mind-
No glance of sympathy I see,
No look of pity can I find.

Oh! I would hide my weary head
In solitudes the most profound!
With dark impervious shades are spread;
And silence reigns o'er all around.

Nature would ope her friendly arms;
And, folded on her shelt'ring breast,
My heart would lose its wild alarms,
My agonies would sink to rest.

Mistaken thought! - poor wand'rer! no:
It is not Nature that can cure
Thy restless deeply cherish'd woe-
Ah no! nor teach thee to endure.

The God of Nature- he alone,
Who form'd the feeling heart, and I knows
Each secret throb- each stifled groan-
He can relieve its mighty woes.

O did we with that ardent care
With which we seek each earthly toy,
That glitt'ring dazzles to ensnare,
And captivates but to destroy;

Did we "with bosom free from pride"
Seek His illuminating light,
He would support, console, and guide-
And all our ways direct aright.