Since I, before the hallow'd shrine,
First call'd my dearest Anna mine,
Ne'er did my pulse fo rapid move,
Nor glad my heart with equal love!
Thofe charms that in this infant lie,
Shall bind us by a closer tie.
My partial eyes with pleasure trace
The features in it's infant face;
And if kind Heaven in mercy hear
The fondness of a father's prayer,
In her
may I thofe manners fee,
Thofe virtues I adore in thee!
ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY!
ES, it is paft; the fatal ftroke is given;
Our pious forrows own the hand of Heaven.
How fhort our joys! incumber'd life how vain!
Still vex'd with evil's never-ceafing train;
While roll the hours which lead each fleeting year,
Each asks a figh, and each demands a tear.
O'er pleasing scenes the mind with rapture roves,
Grafps in idea all it hopes or loves:
Snatch'd from it's view the pleafing scenes decay,
And the fair vifion melts in fhades away.
Of youth, of beauty, and of wit the boast,
O lov'd for ever, and too early lost!
Sweet maid, for thee now mingling with the dead,
Her facred griefs the tuneful Mufe shall shed;
The foft remembrance of thy charms to fave,
She plants with all her bays thy hallow'd grave.
Ye too, companions of her happier days.
Heirs of her charms, and rivals of her praife,
Amid the circles of the young
and gay,
Your years, unheeded, urge their stealing way;
While mix'd with Pleafure's ever-fmiling train,
Ye know no forrows, and ye feel no pain:
Yet, when no more the pulfe tumultuous beats,
Nor the pleas'd fenfe each flattering tale repeats,
Let calm Reflection the fad moral teach,
That blifs below evades our eager reach;
That Virtue only grants the real charm,
Gives wit to win, and beauty power to warm;
And tho', like her's, whofe recent fate we mourn,
And ask your pity for a fifter's urn,
Your beauties fhine in all their bloom confefs'd,
'Mid gazing flaves contending to be blefs'd,
Yet think, like her's may foon those beauties fade;
Like her's, your glories in the dust be laid!
Time's hardy fteps in filence fwift advance,
Dim the bright ray that darts the fiery glance;
And Age, dread herald of Death's awful reign,
Blafts ev'ry grace, and freezes ev'ry vein.
When with a mother's joy, a mother's fear,
The thoughtful parent dropp'd the filent tear,
Gaz'd on her child, and faw new beauties rife,
Glow in her cheeks, and fparkle in her eyes,
In expectation plann'd each hope of life,
The fifter, daughter, mother, friend, and wife;
Ah, fleeting joys! how foon thofe hopes were o'er!
We doom'd to mouru, and fhe to charm no more.
The waning moon shall fill her wasted horn,
And Nature's radiance gild the orient morn;
The fmiling fpring with charms renew'd appear,
The fleeping bloffoms hafte to deck the year;
But bloom no more this fair departed flower,
Nor wak'd by genial fun, nor vernal shower.
How vain, alas! was all thy father's art,
Vain were the fighs which swell'd thy mother's heart!
Again I fee thee, juft expiring lie,
Pale thy cold lip, half-clos'd thy languid eye;
The guardian, Innocence, befide thee ftands,
And patient Faith uplifts her holy hands;
Teach thee with fmiles to meet the ftroke of Death,
Calm all thy pangs, and cafe thy ftruggling breath.
Refign'd, dear maid, to earth's maternal breast,
May fifter feraphs chaunt thy foul to reft!
There fhall the conftant Amaranthus bloom,
And wings of zephyrs shed the morn's perfume:
O'er thy fad hearse, fair emblems of the dead,
By virgin hands are dying lilies thed.
The weeping Graces fhall thy tomb surround;
The Loves with broken darts fhall ftrew the ground;
In vain for thee they wak'd the fond defires,
Wove myrtle wreathes, and fann'd their purer fires.
The youthful god, who joins the nuptial bands,
In vain expecting, near his altar ftands;
Fate spread the cloud! his torch extinct, he flies;
And veils with faffron robe his streaming eyes.
Yet, oh! while crown'd with never-fading flowers,
Thy spirit wanders thro' Elyfian bowers,
If plaintive founds of mortal grief below
Reach the bless'd feats, and waft our tender woe,
Hear, happy fhade; while thus our mortal lays.
This monument of foft affection raife.
By gentle ties of kindred birth ally'd,
The Muse, that sports on Camus' willow'd fide,
In Memory's lofty dome inscribes thy name,
And with thy beauties ftrives to mix her fame,
ON THE DEATH OF MR. PELHAM.
An honeft man's the nobleft work of God!
ET others hail the rifing fun,
bow to that whose course is run, Which fets in endless night;
Whofe rays benignant blefs'd this ifle,
Made peaceful Nature round us fmile,
With calm, but chearful light.
No bounty past provokes my praise,
No future profpects prompt my lays,
From real grief they flow;
I catch th' alarm from Britain's fears,
My forrows fall with Britain's tears,
And join a nation's woe.
See, as you pass the crouded ftreet,
Defpondence clouds each face you meet;
All their loft friend deplore:
You read in ev'ry penfive eye,
You hear in ev'ry broken figh,
That Pelham is no more!
If thus each Briton be alarm'd,
Whom but his diftant influence warm'd ;
What grief their breafts must rend,
Who, in his private virtues blefs'd,
By Nature's deareft ties poffefs'd
The hufband, father, friend!
What! mute, ye bards?—no mournful verse,
No chaplets to adorn his hearfe,
To crown the good and juft?
Your flow'rs in warmer regions bloom,
You seek no penfions from the tomb,
No laurels from the duft.
When pow'r departed with his breath,
The fons of Flatt'ry fled from Death;
Such infects fwarm at noon.
Not for herself my Mufe is griev'd;
She never afk'd, nor e'er receiv'd,
One minifterial boon.
Hath fome peculiar, ftrange offence,
Against us arm'd Omnipotence,
To check the nation's pride?
Behold th' appointed punishment!
At length the vengeful bolt is fent;
It fell-when Pelham died!
Uncheck'd by shame, unaw'd by dread,
When Vice triumphant rears her head,
Vengeance can fleep no more:
The evil angel stalks at large;
The good fubmits, refigns his charge,
And quits th' unhallow'd fhore.
The fame fad morn*, to church and state,
(So for our fins 'twas fix'd by Fate)
A double ftroke was giv'n;
Black as the whirlwinds of the north,
St. John's fell Genius iffu'd forth,
And Pelham fled to heav'n!
*The 6th of March 1754, was remarkable for the publication of the works of a late lord, and the death of Mr. Pelham.
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