Nay, be compos'd; for all will yet be well,
Though here our history's too long to tell’ —
A long-lost Father found, the mystery clear'd,
What mingled transports in her face appear'd!
The gazing Veteran stood with hands uprais'd —
‘ Art thou indeed my Child! then, God be prais'd.’
O'er his rough cheeks the tears profusely spread:
Such as fools say become not Men to shed;
Past hours of bliss, regenerated charms,
Rose, when he felt his Daughter in his arms:
So tender was the scene, the generous Dame
Wept, as she told of Phoebe's virtuous fame,
And the good Host, with gestures passing strange,
Abstracted seem'd through fields of joy to range:
Rejoicing that his favour'd Roof should prove
Virtue's asylum, and the nurse of Love;
Rejoicing that to him the task was given, his full Soul was mounting up to Heav'n.