 | Miscellanies (1785) |  |
229
EPITAPHS.
231
EPITAPH ON ------
What tho' no titles speak thy modest worth,Nor proud processions, nor the pomps of birth;
Nor trophied tombs where labour'd emblems shine
To mark, in gloomy state, an ancient line
Of Kings and heroes crumbling near the spot,
Where ev'ry folly but their Pride's forgot?
The glare of fortune and the swell of blood,
Ill suits the decent grave, that holds the good;
Ill suits, oh parent shade! thy humble dust,
Which asks no flatt'ry from the breathing bust:
Far other power, no marble can impart,
Records the hist'ry of a father's heart;
Far other incense shall thy ashes grace,
Ah dear support and comfort of thy race!
232
In balmy tribute from thy childrens sighs,
The bosom'd shrines that own thy deathless sway,
No moth shall perish, and no worm decay;
A son's mute grief shall make thy fame more clear,
Thy virtues shine more graceful in the tear,
That duteous bathes a daughter's cheek, than all
The vaunting plumage of the gorgeous pall,
And more true honour from such offering springs
Than the mock woe which grandeur buys for Kings.
TO THE MEMORY OF CAPTAIN DRUMMOND, A BRAVE YOUNG OFFICER.
Shall spotless honour, and ingenious truth,
The glow of manhood in the bloom of youth,
Worth's rosy prime in Nature's earliest morn,
Talents to raise, and manners to adorn,
In the dark tomb, unwept, unhonour'd lie,
No sweet memorial of the grateful sigh,
No pensive friend to clasp the modest urn
At which the Graces and the Virtues mourn;
At which fair Devonshire might shed the tear,
And twine the laurel round her hero's bier;
For 'twas his valour did the treasure save
When Albion's brightest gem was on the wave,
A gem which Bourbon would exulting see,
And ask whole realms to set the captive free.
The glow of manhood in the bloom of youth,
Worth's rosy prime in Nature's earliest morn,
Talents to raise, and manners to adorn,
In the dark tomb, unwept, unhonour'd lie,
No sweet memorial of the grateful sigh,
233
At which the Graces and the Virtues mourn;
At which fair Devonshire might shed the tear,
And twine the laurel round her hero's bier;
For 'twas his valour did the treasure save
When Albion's brightest gem was on the wave,
A gem which Bourbon would exulting see,
And ask whole realms to set the captive free.
Oh blossom'd promise of thy country's care,
Thy country's Muse for thee the wreaths prepare,
And Memory notes thee in her faithful page,
Pointing thy fame to many a distant age.
Long shall th' enduring model be impress'd,
In the pure temple of each generous breast,
Shrin'd in that precious record shall it shine,
And England's youth their virtues form on thine.
Thy country's Muse for thee the wreaths prepare,
And Memory notes thee in her faithful page,
Pointing thy fame to many a distant age.
Long shall th' enduring model be impress'd,
In the pure temple of each generous breast,
Shrin'd in that precious record shall it shine,
And England's youth their virtues form on thine.
Alluding to his having bravely defended the Pacquet, which was attacked while the Duchess of Devonshire was on beard.
234
EPITAPH
On a DOG born at Rome, and brought by Lady S---y into England, from thence carried to her Ladyship's Family Seat in Wales, where he died.
In soft repose, beneath this Cambrian tomb,Here lies—an ancient citizen of Rome:
And that great mistress of the world must own
Ne'er did she look upon a worthier son:
Not the Twelve Cæsars shew'd a soul more free,
Than shone, O venerable sage! in thee.
In her proud empire, all her chiefs around,
Not a more generous hero could be found.
By instinct taught to act a Roman part,
Fear trembled to approach thy dauntless heart;
No blood of Nero enter'd thy firm breast,
Yet bold as godlike Cato when oppress'd;
The first Dictator not more mild than thee,
Wise as Pompilius, gay as Anthony;
With Trajan kind and Pertinax the just,
Far from vile Cataline, should sleep thy dust.
235
His master's headless body stain'd with gore,
Far from the strand to bathe it in the main,
When haughty Julius left it on the plain,
Not that good freed-man with a heart more brave
Than thine, a charge so lov'd, so dear would save.
Nor Decius' self, who for his country died,
Had more of glowing zeal or patriot pride.
Thanks to thy gentle mistress, thou wert brought
With all th' imperial, ancient graces fraught,
To this blest isle, from the Italian shore,
When Rome's primeval glories were no more;
As in thy native land thou here might see
Reviv'd, reform'd, the Roman Liberty;
Here was thy Freedom giv'n on Albion's coast,
And three great nations shall thy friendship boast.
England thy residence, Rome claims thy birth,
Thy ashes rest in Cambria's holy earth;
In that unconquer'd soil is rear'd thy shrine,
And near thy tomb, th' illustrious S---ys join!
Thrice honour'd Roman, 'twas thy happy fate,
To live and die amongst the Good and Great.
236
SILVANA, THE HIGHLAND SHEPHERDESS.
'Twas in December's drear, and darksome days
When the cold North sends forth his cutting blast:
'Twas when portentous clouds denoting storm
Their sable horrors roll'd around the Heavens:
'Twas when by force of hurricanoes vast,
The towering fir e'en to his root was riven,
Till all of feather, or of fleece, forsook
The Highland hill, to shelter in the vale:
Then 'twas, that poor Silvana to her grief
A prey, and reckless of the threat'ning sky,
Sat on the perilous ridge of the rude rock,
That frowns upon the dizy precipice.
Lonely she sat, and ne'er did sorrow seize
A form more delicate, a soul more kind.
Care, from her tender cheek, now woeful wan
The rose had torn, and in its stead the tear,
Like dew-drops on the lilly, settled there.
Five fleecy friends were to Silvana dear,
And more than five moons wasted had they fed,
On the scant reliques of Silvana's store.
The prickly furze, the weed-entangled grass,
The thistly blade, the heavy hemlock's leaf,
The bitter mallow, and the flowery fern,
Her sheep ne'er cropt, but herbs of sweetertaste,
The vernal pasturage of voluptuous meads,
The richest grazings of the daintiest dell,
The velvet verdure of the violet vale,
The honied clover, and the fragrant blade.
Her daily journey to the fertile farms
Was for the purchase of the day's repast;
But now her eye was fix'd, her bosom bare,
Irregularly throbbing with its woe;
Wild to the pitiless winds her scatter'd locks
Luxurious floated; half her shoulder spread,
And half in deep disorder stream'd in air:
Uplift to Heaven her snowy arms were rais'd
In passion or in prayer; at last a sigh
Heav'd from her hapless heart, and thus she sung.
When the cold North sends forth his cutting blast:
'Twas when portentous clouds denoting storm
Their sable horrors roll'd around the Heavens:
'Twas when by force of hurricanoes vast,
The towering fir e'en to his root was riven,
Till all of feather, or of fleece, forsook
The Highland hill, to shelter in the vale:
Then 'twas, that poor Silvana to her grief
A prey, and reckless of the threat'ning sky,
Sat on the perilous ridge of the rude rock,
That frowns upon the dizy precipice.
Lonely she sat, and ne'er did sorrow seize
A form more delicate, a soul more kind.
Care, from her tender cheek, now woeful wan
The rose had torn, and in its stead the tear,
237
Five fleecy friends were to Silvana dear,
And more than five moons wasted had they fed,
On the scant reliques of Silvana's store.
The prickly furze, the weed-entangled grass,
The thistly blade, the heavy hemlock's leaf,
The bitter mallow, and the flowery fern,
Her sheep ne'er cropt, but herbs of sweetertaste,
The vernal pasturage of voluptuous meads,
The richest grazings of the daintiest dell,
The velvet verdure of the violet vale,
The honied clover, and the fragrant blade.
Her daily journey to the fertile farms
Was for the purchase of the day's repast;
But now her eye was fix'd, her bosom bare,
Irregularly throbbing with its woe;
Wild to the pitiless winds her scatter'd locks
Luxurious floated; half her shoulder spread,
And half in deep disorder stream'd in air:
Uplift to Heaven her snowy arms were rais'd
In passion or in prayer; at last a sigh
Heav'd from her hapless heart, and thus she sung.
238
I
'Twill soon be o'er—no more despair,Silvana's eyes shall soon be dry;
Man, feeble man, was born to bear,
“To look about him, and to die.”
II
Then soft a while, and gentle deathSilvana's passing-bell shall toll,
Her lambs shall catch her wand'ring breath,
And Heaven shall watch the flying soul.
III
This fluttering spirit shall be free,My sheep, meantime, demand my care;
They browze, and bound round yonder tree,
But ah!—their shepherd is not there.
IV
Yet cease awhile—no more despair,I see my shepherd in the sky;
Tho' man's frail race were born to bear,
The wedded soul shall never die.
| Miscellanies (1785) | |