ELEGY, &c.
[7]AGAIN that funeral knell?—'tis Death's deep toll,
And Rutland is no more!—the general groan,
The guſh of grief from ſorrow's inmoſt ſoul,
Sound the laſt ſummons—He's for ever gone!
[8]
Nor youth, nor titles ranged in proud array,
Nor loftieſt lineage, high as kings may go;
Nor a whole people's prayer, have power to ſtay
The mortal malady's malignant blow.
Such, in this pilgrimage of earthly cares,
For many a ſhort ſojourner the ſad ſigh.
Fate's formidable ordinance declares
The beſt are born to ſuffer and to die.
But while thro' all her ſons Hibernia mourns
The ſtateſman dead, the friend, companion loſt,
In Britain, in his native Britain, burns
No generous breaſt to hail his honour'd ghoſt?
[9]
For never from its mournful manſion forth,
Went one more honour'd to the realms above;
And yet not nobler in exalted worth,
Than gracious gifts of courteſy and love.
Ah, melancholy thought!—the general groan
Of heart-felt horror thro' a people ſpread,
In one ſad mourner center'd, all in one,
Soon ſhall burſt over a lov'd huſband dead.
Dead, ere his hour, by too ſevere a fate,
In the full prime of life's meridian bloom;
His ardent ſpirits high with hope elate
Of many a joy, in many a year to come.
[10]
Ill-deſtin'd youth! nor year, alas, haſt thou,
Nor joy to come, from this devoted day.
Tranſient thy morn of glory, as the bow
That blazons heav'n's blue arch, and fades away.
Not ſo the ſorrows a fond conſort pours!
Sorrows!—but who may paint what paſſeth ſhew?
With what diviner inſpiration's powers
An angel's agonies unfold to view?
Such, (and the funeral harbinger draws near)
Such, as when fate's irrevocable doom
On her lov'd Lord aſſails her fear-full ear,
Pale now and cold in night's eternal gloom.
[11]
What heart, with Shakſpear's fire, would firmneſs have
To ponder on thoſe moments, when Deſpair
Its ghaſtly ſemblance on that face ſhall grave,
Fairer than Fancy's pencil could make fair?
To hear that voice, that 'witch'd the liſt'ning ſoul
With more than muſick, all diſcordant broke;
In thrilling plaints, diſdainful of controll,
Calling on cruel Death, whoſe ruthleſs ſtroke
Kill'd all her hopes?—"You ſunk him to the tomb,
"Remorſeleſs Death! you ſped the dart, (ſhe cries;)
"Ere I to catch the parting breath could come,
"Preſs his pale lips, and cloſe his dying eyes.
[12]
"He's gone! the bright ſtar that illum'd my ſky!
"Diſcolour'd now with dim'd and loathſome light.
"Where e'er I turn, no gleam of comfort nigh;
"'Tis ſilence all, and ſolitude, and night!
"Now never more, the lonely hour to cheer,
"Shall he be ſeen; to read the wiſtful eye;
"Hear inward anguiſh ſigh'd to Paſſion's ear,
"Sooth'd only by re-murm'ring Paſſion's ſigh.
"No, he's for ever gone! friend, huſband, all,
"For which in this waſte world I long'd to live.
"Vainly to me its vain enchantments call;
"Nought have I now to aſk, or that to give;
[13]
"Then let what may take all!"—Ah, Lady, ſtill,
Something remains, ſad Lady; ſtill too dear!
When Paſſion's ruffled gale hath blown its fill,
Oh, there's a tender call ſtill claims thy care!
A huſband's laſt fond pledges of his love;
His and your love, for ever left behind.
And ſhall ſuch pledges ineffectual prove?
Such melting motives on a mother's mind?
Too hapleſs Lady! no.—Each lenient art
To lighten their diſtreſs, that love will try;
Silence the throbbings of a bleeding heart,
And be to them their parent in the ſky.
[14]
So, like ſome flower, (if with prophetic view
The poet's eye may glance on days to come)
Like ſome ſpring-flower, reviv'd from noxious dew,
Shall that bright form, emerging from the gloom
Of blank Misfortune's frown, with vivid glow
Again bloom forth; with roſeat ſmiles again
Feel Health's gay ſpirits animated flow,
And once more lead the loves' and graces' train.
Such the warm hope of all, whoſe ſouls e'er dwelt
On the fair wonder of that heav'nly face;
Felt for ſuch grief as only can be felt,
Which ev'n the muſe herſelf wants pow'r to trace.
[15]
Oh, then forgive the meaneſt of her train;
To Rutland or to Fame how lightly known;
Who touch'd by ſympathy, in artleſs ſtrain,
Preſumes with her laments to mix his own.
But born alike into a world of woe,
Inſenſibly we form the feeling breaſt;
Humanity heav'n ſends to high and low,
The beggar and the king, a common gueſt.
FINIS.