A Common Theme a flatt'ring Muse may fire,
To raise our Passions, when she sings for hire;
She may our Wonders or our Praises steal,
By feigning Transports, which she does not feel,
But when the Song from inbred Love proceeds,
And paints the Torment of a Heart that bleeds;
The mourning Muse exerts superior Skill,
And dips in Tears th' inconsolable Quill;
Our Bosoms then with real Transports glow,
And a genuine Sorrow will from Nature flow.
Ah! what is Life, that thoughtless Wish of all?
A Drop of Honey in a Draught of Gall:
An half Existence, or a waking Dream:
A bitter Fountain with a muddy Stream:
A Tale, a Shadow, or an empty Sound,
Tho' cloath'd with Sorrow and with Anguish found:
A fading Landscape, painted upon Clay,
The Source of Woe, and Idol of a Day;
The sweet Deluder of a restless Mind,
Which if 'twere lost, how few would wish to find!
Untimely thus the Infant budding Rose
Is cropp'd by some rude Hand before it blows;
Away the little Soul of Fragrance flies,
And Beauty in its Bloom unheeded dies.
Can I be dumb, when Love and Nature cries,
Tho' I have lost the Darling of my Eyes?
Tho' 'tis in vain to wish for her Return,
Yet all the Ties of Nature bid me mourn.
O! Can you check the unrelenting Sea,
And make the jarring Elements agree?
Can you forbid the Tide to Ebb and Flow?
Can you restrain the Fall of Hail and Snow?
Can you command the Thunder not to roar,
Or drive the beating Billows from the Shore?
Have you the Art to lull a Storm to sleep?
Then may your Words persuade me not to weep.
O! give me Licence to lament her Fall,
As David mourn'd for Jonathan and Saul;
Or, (if it may with Innocence be done)
As he lamented Absalom his Son;
When in the Anguish of his Soul he cry'd,
Would God, my Son, I in thy Place had dy'd!
Then lend your aid (if any such there be
That love a Child, or mourn for one like me)
Let your kind Sigh, with me in Concert join,
And add your sympathising Tears to mine!
But if there's none commiserates my Case,
And in no Breast Compassion finds a Place,
Let not your Censures add to my Concern,
Nor smile, whilst I immerst in Sorrow, mourn!
If you are void of Trouble, free from Pain,
Increase not mine, nor wonder I complain.
I know the Stroke is from the Hand divine,
To whom I will submit and not repine;
Tho' I deplore my loss, and with it less,
Yet I will kiss the Rod, and acquiesce;
A Saviour's Blood shall supersede my Fears,
And Love Paternal justify my Tears.
When Death at first besieg'd this little Fort,
The feeble Outworks were the Tyrant's Sport;
A Fever made the first Attack in Form,
And then Convulsions took it soon by Storm.
Succours from Art were weak, like those within,
The Guards were Sickly, and the Walls were Thin.
In bad Repair the Gates and Citadel.
And then no Wonder with such Ease it fell,
Death's icey Hands the lovely Fabrick spoil'd,
He got a Victim, but I lost my Child.
Five mournful Days with trembling Hand and Heart,
I play'd the whole Artillary of Art;
Five Nights I past in Sorrow like the Day,
And almost mourn'd my own sad self away;
But when the whole that Art could do was try'd,
Her Lease of Life was cancell'd, and she dy'd:
She dy'd―the conscious, whisp'ring, Wind reply
And I (unhappy Father!) saw her die! (
I saw her die—! Can I the Dead forgive?
How can I bear to say I did―and live!
Tho' long her Reason suffer'd an Eclipse,
No sinful Words proceeded from her Lips,
And tho' oppress'd with agonizing Pain,
She utter'd nothing indifferent or vain,
Which gives me hopes her Soul was wash'd from Sin,
And Grace abounding was at Work within.
Whilst Nature yet maintain'd the doubtful Strife,
And Death stood hov'ring on the Verge of Life,
Even then―when all the Hopes of Life were fled,
I ard the Angel waiting round her Bed,
(They, to conduct her to the Realms of Day,
And I, to weep, to sigh, to mourn, to pray)
I kiss'd her Lips, and wip'd her dying Face,
And took the Father's and the Nurse's Place;
Her dying Groans were Daggers to my Heart:
We knew we must, but Oh! were Loth to part!
I mourn'd, I wept, I gave a Loose to Grief,
And had recourse to all Things for Relief,
But all in vain—the last Effort I make,
I give—but Oh! she had not Strength to take:
Her flutt'ring Pulse with Intermission play'd,
And then her Heart its Palpitation stay'd;
And thus thro' all the Forms of Death she past,
'Till with a Groan my dear one breath'd her last.
But who can paint the Horror, or the pow'r
Of Nature's Conflict in so dark an Hour?
The Wound was such that Time can never heal,
No Balm can cure it, and no Art conceal.
May that sad Day be banish'd from the Year,
Or cloth'd in Sable, if it must appear!
Or, may the Sun withdraw his Beams at noon,
And solid Darkness veil the Stars and Moon!
May all the Sands be stagnant in the Glass,
And (as the Hour returns) refuse to pass!
All Clocks be dumb, and Time forget to fly,
And may all Nature be as sad as I!
Let Mourning in its blackest Dress appear,
And she be never nam'd without a Tear!
Her Name shall live, and yield a sweet Perfume,
And (tho' in Dust) her Memory shall bloom.
Oh! where are now those dear, obedient Hands,
So pleas'd to execute my whole Commands?
Where are those Feet, so early taught to run?
As Lightning swift, unweary'd as the Sun?
Or where those Arms, that with such passion strove
To clasp my Neck, and stifle me with Love?
Where those dear Lips, where mine were wont to dwell
And where that Breath, that ravish'd with the Swell?
Where is thy Tongue, whose prattle pleas'd mine Ears?
Where fled the hopes of my declining Years?
When is that Face, so pleasant when she smil'd?
O where's the Woman acting in the Child?
Where those dear Eyes, that with such sweetness shone?
Or rather, where are all my Comforts gone?
Where is that Beauty, so near to Truth ally'd,
And never disobey'd―but when she dy'd?
Where is that Breast, where Virtue once did grow,
As Roses sweet, and white as falling Snow,
They're bury'd all in the voracious Grave,
Where King's are level'd with the meanest Slave.
The Wise and Great, when there they make their Bed,
Are equal'd with the Wretch that begs his Bread;
For there the Wicked can no more oppress,
And there the Weary find a calm Recess.
Alas! th' Wretched Hope in this alone!
And hence I go with Sorrow mourning down,
Till then, this Thought shall mitigate my Woe,
And dry up tears that now profusely flow,
That when by Heav'n's Command I quit the Scene,
Bow'd down by Time, and quite fatigu'd with Age;
My Flesh shall rest in Quiet by her side,
Like a fond Bridegroom sleeping by his Bride;
Till the last Day shall both to Life restore,
When Death shall die, and Time shall be no more.
This distant Hope does equal Pleasure give,
As now my Soul is conscious that I live.
And thou that once wast my Delight and Pride,
In whom I hop'd to have a Nurse and Guide,
When restless Days should bow my hoary Head,
And Pain or Sickness fix me to my Bed,
If I may guiltless call upon thy Name,
And ask a Boon without incurring Blame;
Tho' thou art happy now amongst the blest,
Indulge a tender Father's last Request.
When some kind Angel from this World below
Shall bring the News (for sure the Angels know)
And shall to Thee and other Spirits tell,
That Mine has Orders to forsake the Shell,
And be transplanted to the Realms of Light,
Where Faith and Hope are swallow'd up in Sight,
Do you with Heav'nly Raptures meet my Ghost
On th' utmost limits of that happy Coast:
Let me receive Increase of Joy from you!
Till then, my little Saint, Adieu, Adieu.
'Tis sung, that exil'd by Tyrannick Jove,
Apollo from the Starry Realms above,
To Sylvan shades, to grots and streams retir'd,
And that new scene and that new state denied,
Admir'd, but found (with pleasure and surprize)
Himself the same on earth as in the skies;
A simple majesty, and easy grace,
Compos'd his steps, and lighten'd in his face;
The wond'ring Swains and Nymphs, where'er he trod,
At distance gaz'd, and recogniz'd the god;
Where e'er he pass'd, the world his influence knew,
And learning, art, and wisdom, round him grew.
Still, tho' in silent privacy, he gave
His wonted air, inspir'd the wise and brave;
Taught patriots policy; taught poets sense,
And bade all live, or die, in Liberty's defence.
Sure this is verify'd: what here we view
In B———gb———e, has made the fiction true.
See! emblem of himself, his Villa stand!
Politely finish'd, regularly grand!
Frugal of ornament, but that the best,
And all with curious negligence express'd.
No gaudy colours stain the rural hall,
Blank light and shade discriminate the wall:
Where thro' the whole we see his lov'd design,
To please with mildness, without glaring shine;
Himself neglects what must all others charm,
And what he built a palace calls a Farm.
Here the proud trophies and the spoils of war
Yield to the schythe, the harrow and the car;
To whate'er implement the rustick wield,
Whate'er manures the garden, or the fields.
Constraste of scenes! behold a worthless tool,
A dubb'd plebeian, fortune's fav'rite fool,
Laden with publick plunder, loll in state,
'Midst dazling gems, and piles of massy plate,
'Midst arms, and kings and gods and heroes quaff,
His wit all ending in an ideot laugh;
Whilst noble St J——— in his sweet recess,
(By those made greater who would make him less)
Sees, on the figur'd wall, the stacks of corn
With beauty more than theirs the room adorn,
Young winged Cupids smiling guide the plough,
And peasants elegantly reap and sow.
The Mantuan genius, thus, in rural strains,
Adds grace to couts, and dignity to swains,
Makes Phoebus' self partake the farmer's toil,
And all the muses cultivate the soil,
While free of heart, and eloquent of tongue,
His speech, as tuneful as that heav'nly song,
Suspends in rapture each attentive guest;
Words more delicious than his gen'rous feast;
Wit more inspiring than his flowing bowl;
The feast of reason, and the flow of soul.
O Britain!―But 'tis past―O lost to fame!
The wond'rous man, thy glory, and thy shame,
Conversing with the mighty minds of old,
Names like his own in time's bright lists inroll'd,
Here splendidly obscure, delighted lives,
And only for his wretched country grieves.
While thou, in grate, infatuate, as thou art,
Of thy mad conduct long shalt feel the smart,
Long mourn the folly which thy weal destroys,
And rue the blest retirement he enjoys.