Works

I was watching for Letters the other Day, and these incorrect and improviso Verses came in my head; I sent ’em to Piozzi.

Postman! whose Visit at my Door
    Delight or Care dispenses,
Whose Knock with pangs unfelt before
    Alarms my tender Senses;

The pains of Absence thou alone
    Canst mitigate or soften,
Yet some Ingratitude I’ll own
    By Mortals felt too often:

While sighing for that blissful Hour
    When All my Sorrows ended,
No more this Heart shall feel thy pow’r
    On those black Lines suspended:

But Comfort in my Piozzi’s Form
    His Voice and Air assuming,
Shall snatch me from the threaten’d Storm
    To Fields for ever blooming:

No anxious Fears I then shall feel
    Nor more mild Heav’n importune;
Save when She runs too fast down hill
    To lock the Wheel of Fortune.