DEATH OF THE BISHOP OF WINCHESTER.
Composed in the Author's 17th Year.
SILENT I sat, dejected, and alone,
Making, in thought, the public woes my own, When, first, arose the image in my breast and Of England's suffering by that scourge, the Pest!! How Death, his fun'ral torch and scythe in hand, Entering the lordliest mansions of the land, A Has laid the gem-illumin'd palace low,
And levell'd tribes of nobles at a blow. t
I, next, deplor'd the fam'd paternal pair,
Too soon to ashes turn'd, and empty air!
The heroes next, whom snatch'd into the skies,
All Belgia saw, and follow'd with her sighs,
But thee far most I mourn'd, regretted most, v,
Winton's chief shepherd, and her worthiest boast!
Pour'd out in tears I thus complaining said:
"Death, next in pow'r to him, who rules the
Is't not enough that all the woodlands yield
To thy fell force, and ev'ry verdant field,
That lilies, at one noisome blast of thine,
And ev❜n the Cyprian queen's own roses, pine,
That oaks themselves, although the running rill
Suckle their roots, must wither at thy will,
That all the winged nations, even those,
Whose heav'n-directed flight the future shows,
And all the beasts, that in dark forests stray,
And all the herds of Proteus are thy prey.
Ah envious! arm'd with pow'rs so unconfin❜d!
Why stain thy hands with blood of human kind?
Why take delight, with darts, that never roam,
To chase a heav'n-born spirit from her home?”
While thus I mourn'd, the star of evening stood, Now newly ris'n above the western flood,
And Phoebus from his morning-goal again
Had reach'd the gulphs of the Iberian main.
I wish'd repose, and on my couch reclin'd,
Took early rest, to night and sleep resign'd:
When-Oh for words to paint what I beheld!
I seem'd to wander in a spacious field,
Where all the champaign glow'd with purple light
Like that of sun-rise on the mountain height;
Flow'rs over all the field, of ev'ry hue
That ever Iris wore, luxuriant grew.
Nor Chloris, with whom am'rous Zephyrs play,
E'er dress'd Alcinous' garden half so gay.
A silver current, like the Tagus, roll'd
O'er golden sands, but sands of purer gold,
With dewy airs Favonius fann'd the flow'rs,
With airs awaken'd under rosy bow'rs.
Such, poets feign, irradiated all o'er
The sun's abode on India's utmost shore.
While I, that splendour, and the mingled shade
Of fruitful vines, with wonder fixt survey'd,
At once, with looks, that beam'd celestial
The seer of Winton stood before my face.
His snowy vesture's hem descending low.
His golden sandals swept, and pure as snow
New-fallen shone the mitre on his brow.
Where'er he trod a tremulous sweet sound
Of gladness shook the flow'ry scene around:
Attendant angels clap their starry wings,
The trumpet shakes the sky, all æther rings,
Each chaunts his welcome, folds him to his breast,
And thus a sweeter voice than all the, rest:
"Ascend, my son! thy father's kingdom share!
My son! henceforth be freed from ev'ry care!":
So spake the voice, and at its tender close With psaltry's sound th' angelic band arose, Then night retired, and chas'd by dawning day The visionary bliss pass'd all
I mourn'd my banish'd sleep, with fond concern; Frequent to me may dreams like this return!..
HENCE my epistle-skim the deep-fly o'er
Yon smooth expanse to the Teutonic shore!
Haste―lest a friend should grieve for thy delay-
And the Gods grant, that nothing thwart thy way!
I will myself invoke the king, who binds,
In his Sicanian echoing vault, the winds,
With Doris and her nymphs, and all the throng
Of azure gods, to speed thee safe along.
But rather to ensure thy happier haste,
Ascend Medea's chariot, if thou may'st;
Or that, whence young Triptolemus of yore
Descended, welcome on the Scythian shore.
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