The Works of Mr. Robert Gould In Two Volumes. Consisting of those Poems [and] Satyrs Which were formerly Printed, and Corrected since by the Author; As also of the many more which He Design'd for the Press. Publish'd from his Own Original Copies [by Robert Gould] |
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On the Death of Madam Pool's Son and
Heir; Born Eight Months after his Fathers Decease.
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 | The Works of Mr. Robert Gould |  |
230
On the Death of Madam Pool's Son and Heir; Born Eight Months after his Fathers Decease.
If Angels for what happens here amiss
E'er grieve—it is at such a Time as this,
When what's most like to them is snatch't from hence,
And Vertue mourns the Loss of Innocence.
E'er grieve—it is at such a Time as this,
When what's most like to them is snatch't from hence,
And Vertue mourns the Loss of Innocence.
Her Consort from her Beaute'ous Bosom torn
Had left her Cause for a whole Age to mourn:
No wedded Pair e'er led a happier Life,
The kindest Husband, and the chastest Wife.
For such a Loss where cou'd she find Relief?
What Joy cou'd balance with so vast a Grief?
Had left her Cause for a whole Age to mourn:
No wedded Pair e'er led a happier Life,
The kindest Husband, and the chastest Wife.
For such a Loss where cou'd she find Relief?
What Joy cou'd balance with so vast a Grief?
See here how Providence the Plan does lay
When to the Wretched 'twou'd Relief convey,
And take the Weight that loads our Souls away.
A Stranger to the Blessing Heav'n design'd;
His Form was Still so lively in her Mind,
She thought not of his Image left behind,
Nor knew she had conceiv'd;—when Lo! a Son
Is born, when Hope it self was dead and gone.
When to the Wretched 'twou'd Relief convey,
And take the Weight that loads our Souls away.
A Stranger to the Blessing Heav'n design'd;
His Form was Still so lively in her Mind,
She thought not of his Image left behind,
Nor knew she had conceiv'd;—when Lo! a Son
Is born, when Hope it self was dead and gone.
No Child was e'er more welcom than the Boy,
Not wond'rous Isaac more his Mother's Joy;
Sent as a Proof of Providence's Care,
To shew us Mortals ought not to Despair.
By ev'ry Tongue was Heav'n afresh ador'd,
For Worth rewarded, and the Race Restor'd,
If coming Blessings we by present scan,
No Infant ever earlier shew'd the Man,
Not wond'rous Isaac more his Mother's Joy;
Sent as a Proof of Providence's Care,
To shew us Mortals ought not to Despair.
By ev'ry Tongue was Heav'n afresh ador'd,
For Worth rewarded, and the Race Restor'd,
If coming Blessings we by present scan,
No Infant ever earlier shew'd the Man,
231
Now all is well, as when the Blushing Ray
Of op'ning Light foretels a Smiling Day.
But Fate, we know, can quickly shift the Scene,
And Life and Death have but a Step between:
Alternately we tast of Grief and Joy,
Lest this shou'd pamper us, or that Destroy.
Of op'ning Light foretels a Smiling Day.
But Fate, we know, can quickly shift the Scene,
And Life and Death have but a Step between:
Alternately we tast of Grief and Joy,
Lest this shou'd pamper us, or that Destroy.
For now a Mortal Malady has seiz'd
The Child, and but by Death to be appeas'd:
An Ashy Semblance on his Visage dwells,
And trembling Lips th'approaching Stroke foretels:
His Cheeks no more their Rosie Hue retain,
Yet, Martyr-like, he never groan'd at Pain.
The Sons of Art in vain their Med'cines try'd,
The tough Disease did all Efforts deride,
And Death Stalk't on but with the Sterner Pride.
At last cold Numbness all his Limbs possest,
And lull'd the Infant to Eternal rest.
Nor was he then of all his Charms bereft,
A Smile, the Badge of Innocence, was left;
A Smile which from the view of Heav'n must spring
That Scene just op'ning as his Soul took Wing.
The Child, and but by Death to be appeas'd:
An Ashy Semblance on his Visage dwells,
And trembling Lips th'approaching Stroke foretels:
His Cheeks no more their Rosie Hue retain,
Yet, Martyr-like, he never groan'd at Pain.
The Sons of Art in vain their Med'cines try'd,
The tough Disease did all Efforts deride,
And Death Stalk't on but with the Sterner Pride.
At last cold Numbness all his Limbs possest,
And lull'd the Infant to Eternal rest.
Nor was he then of all his Charms bereft,
A Smile, the Badge of Innocence, was left;
A Smile which from the view of Heav'n must spring
That Scene just op'ning as his Soul took Wing.
Adieu! Sweet Babe, thou who ev'n Fate did'st charm,
And of his Ghastly Aspect Death disarm.
What Colours cou'd the ablest Painter find
To Limn that Face where Contradictions joyn'd?
Imprinted Sweetness with departing Breath,
And a pleas'd look in the cold Arms of Death.
And of his Ghastly Aspect Death disarm.
What Colours cou'd the ablest Painter find
To Limn that Face where Contradictions joyn'd?
Imprinted Sweetness with departing Breath,
And a pleas'd look in the cold Arms of Death.
Thus far our Theme requir'd a Mourning Strain
But to persist in needless Grief were vain:
'Tis not in this Sence promis'd—Ask and have;
Heav'n's but provok'd when Lawless things we crave;
No Sorrow ever yet unclos'd the Grave.
Grieve then no more, Fair Dame, his early Fate,
He has soon gain'd what Myriads miss of late:
To many Years e'ven num'rous Sins belong;
The Favourites of Heav'n die always young:
Secur'd from Lust's assaults and Envy's rage,
They're call'd betimes from the Terrestrial Stage;
God Measures not our Happiness by Age.
By true Submission be to Fate resign'd,
Peace ne'er was wanting to a Patient Mind;
Such Vertue must have Blessings yet behind.
If you'll the wisest of Mankind believe,
There is a Time to Smile as well as grieve.
Born to attract, your Charms in all their Prime,
Not ruffl'd yet by the rude Hand of Time,
By Consequence Admirers must produce,
First give 'em Love, then give that Love excuse.
Their gazing on such Sweetness who can blame?
Who wou'd not warm him at so bright a Flame!
I hear 'em sigh, methinks, I see 'em kneel,
And beg that Pity which the Fair shou'd feel:
Smile then, Ah smile! some Dying Lover save,
And stop at last the Triumphs of the Grave.
But to persist in needless Grief were vain:
'Tis not in this Sence promis'd—Ask and have;
Heav'n's but provok'd when Lawless things we crave;
No Sorrow ever yet unclos'd the Grave.
232
He has soon gain'd what Myriads miss of late:
To many Years e'ven num'rous Sins belong;
The Favourites of Heav'n die always young:
Secur'd from Lust's assaults and Envy's rage,
They're call'd betimes from the Terrestrial Stage;
God Measures not our Happiness by Age.
By true Submission be to Fate resign'd,
Peace ne'er was wanting to a Patient Mind;
Such Vertue must have Blessings yet behind.
If you'll the wisest of Mankind believe,
There is a Time to Smile as well as grieve.
Born to attract, your Charms in all their Prime,
Not ruffl'd yet by the rude Hand of Time,
By Consequence Admirers must produce,
First give 'em Love, then give that Love excuse.
Their gazing on such Sweetness who can blame?
Who wou'd not warm him at so bright a Flame!
I hear 'em sigh, methinks, I see 'em kneel,
And beg that Pity which the Fair shou'd feel:
Smile then, Ah smile! some Dying Lover save,
And stop at last the Triumphs of the Grave.
| The Works of Mr. Robert Gould | |