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 untimely Death of Mr. John Cary, Kill'd in a Duel.
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 | The Works of Mr. Robert Gould |  |
On the untimely Death of Mr. John Cary, Kill'd in a Duel.
That Mourning Verse in which the Dead are griev'd
Is sometimes read, but scarcely e'er believ'd:
Applause is partial:—Where's the Funeral Line
Not touch'd with Flatt'ry, Int'erest, or Design?
Is sometimes read, but scarcely e'er believ'd:
Applause is partial:—Where's the Funeral Line
Not touch'd with Flatt'ry, Int'erest, or Design?
Lo Noble Youth! (if from your Heav'nly Sphere
You are allow'd to see our Doings here)
Behold a Friend to sing thy Worth prepar'd,
Meerly in love to Truth, and thoughtless of Reward.
You are allow'd to see our Doings here)
Behold a Friend to sing thy Worth prepar'd,
Meerly in love to Truth, and thoughtless of Reward.
Some may object, we have too long forborn
This Noble Theme, and come too late to mourn:
They have but slightly griev'd whose Griefs are past,
He truly Mourns that lets his Sorrows last:
Then our Delay will this Advantage have,
That we have not forgot Thee in the Grave.
Time lays the near Relations Sables by,
And makes the Mother's Eyes ev'n for her Darling dry,
But Friendship to a Nobler Date extends;
All Grief's but little to the Grief of Friends.
This Noble Theme, and come too late to mourn:
They have but slightly griev'd whose Griefs are past,
He truly Mourns that lets his Sorrows last:
Then our Delay will this Advantage have,
That we have not forgot Thee in the Grave.
Time lays the near Relations Sables by,
And makes the Mother's Eyes ev'n for her Darling dry,
But Friendship to a Nobler Date extends;
All Grief's but little to the Grief of Friends.
259
Be vulgar Souls deplor'd the vulgar Way;
Of him we have no common Things to say.
Heav'n on his out-side took peculiar Care;
Ne'er had so fair a Form a Mind so fair:
The sweet Composure all Beholders Charm'd,
At once the Men were Chill'd, and Women Warm'd;
Despairing these, to see themselves out-done,
And 'tother blushing they must Love so soon.
Of him we have no common Things to say.
Heav'n on his out-side took peculiar Care;
Ne'er had so fair a Form a Mind so fair:
The sweet Composure all Beholders Charm'd,
At once the Men were Chill'd, and Women Warm'd;
Despairing these, to see themselves out-done,
And 'tother blushing they must Love so soon.
Early we found him; Nature soon put forth
The ample Signs of all his following Worth.
Never did youthful Years so truly tell
How strangely those of Manhood wou'd excel!
The ample Signs of all his following Worth.
Never did youthful Years so truly tell
How strangely those of Manhood wou'd excel!
But now Mature, and ev'ry Vertue blown,
Our very Hopes and Wishes were out-done.
As when in April the Prolifick Rain
Descends in quick'ning Show'rs upon the Plain,
The grateful Glebe a gene'rous Product yields,
And universal Green cloaths all the Fields;
Quick from the Ground the various Riches rise;
We see the Change, and scarce believe our Eyes!
The same Effect had Manhood on his Mind,
New-ran the Ore, and ev'ry Seed refin'd;
A thousand Graces strait came forth to view,
And with th'Advantage all of something New.
From the same Stalk his Wit and Prudence sprung,
And Loyalty sat Charm'd upon his Tongue.
His Friendships (which by Worth were always joyn'd)
Nor, Envy, Force, or Fortune cou'd unbind.
His Voice did a strange Harmony impart,
And from the Ear convey'd him to the Heart.
Brave as the Hero's were; indeed too brave!
O fatal Vertue! what can Cowards save,
When Courage can't protect us from the Grave?
Our very Hopes and Wishes were out-done.
As when in April the Prolifick Rain
Descends in quick'ning Show'rs upon the Plain,
The grateful Glebe a gene'rous Product yields,
And universal Green cloaths all the Fields;
Quick from the Ground the various Riches rise;
We see the Change, and scarce believe our Eyes!
The same Effect had Manhood on his Mind,
New-ran the Ore, and ev'ry Seed refin'd;
A thousand Graces strait came forth to view,
And with th'Advantage all of something New.
From the same Stalk his Wit and Prudence sprung,
And Loyalty sat Charm'd upon his Tongue.
His Friendships (which by Worth were always joyn'd)
Nor, Envy, Force, or Fortune cou'd unbind.
His Voice did a strange Harmony impart,
And from the Ear convey'd him to the Heart.
Brave as the Hero's were; indeed too brave!
O fatal Vertue! what can Cowards save,
When Courage can't protect us from the Grave?
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From such Beginnings, with such Vertues prop'd,
What Comfort might his Parents not have hop'd?
Who more on Providence have fix'd their Trust,
And Heav'n has promis'd Blessings to the Just?
A Family on such Foundations laid
One wou'd have thought shou'd stand till Time it self decay'd.
But Ah! how dimly Fate appears from far!
How vain our Human Expectations are!
We be our selves but Creatures of a Day!
And can we hope our Joys will longer stay!
What Comfort might his Parents not have hop'd?
Who more on Providence have fix'd their Trust,
And Heav'n has promis'd Blessings to the Just?
A Family on such Foundations laid
One wou'd have thought shou'd stand till Time it self decay'd.
But Ah! how dimly Fate appears from far!
How vain our Human Expectations are!
We be our selves but Creatures of a Day!
And can we hope our Joys will longer stay!
For now th'Affront is took, the Time is set,
And now the fierce Antagonists are met.
Their Swords unsheath'd, both readily prepare,
And, measuring Blades, begin the mortal War.
What Skill, what Courage, and what Rage can do,
Both Combatants with equal Brav'ry shew.
Long did the Conflict last; a Noble Field
Was long maintain'd, and both disdain'd to yield.
Thrice did our Youthful Hero in the Arm
Wound his bold Foe, but meant no further Harm;
Honour by him the Nobler way was woo'd,
He fought for injur'd Fame, and not for Blood.
Mean while th'Aggressor all Advantage watch'd,
And, closing, from his Gripe th'Weapon snatch'd;
Then short'ning his, with one Accursed Blow,
By Treach'ry did what Courage cou'd not do.
Down fell the Youth; nor did the other stay,
To lend Relief, but left him on the Clay,
Hopeless of Help, and bleeding Life away.
And now the fierce Antagonists are met.
Their Swords unsheath'd, both readily prepare,
And, measuring Blades, begin the mortal War.
What Skill, what Courage, and what Rage can do,
Both Combatants with equal Brav'ry shew.
Long did the Conflict last; a Noble Field
Was long maintain'd, and both disdain'd to yield.
Thrice did our Youthful Hero in the Arm
Wound his bold Foe, but meant no further Harm;
Honour by him the Nobler way was woo'd,
He fought for injur'd Fame, and not for Blood.
Mean while th'Aggressor all Advantage watch'd,
And, closing, from his Gripe th'Weapon snatch'd;
Then short'ning his, with one Accursed Blow,
By Treach'ry did what Courage cou'd not do.
Down fell the Youth; nor did the other stay,
To lend Relief, but left him on the Clay,
Hopeless of Help, and bleeding Life away.
Upon how slight a Hinge our Comforts turn!
How short our Pleasures! and how long we mourn!
Patient our Youth, and kind to an Excess,
The whole Composure Truth and Tenderness;
Yet when in his Good Name he suffer'd Wrong,
Basely traduc'd by an opprobrious Tongue,
He cou'd not bear it, tho' he much cou'd bear;
Patience it self cou'd not restrain him there.
How short our Pleasures! and how long we mourn!
Patient our Youth, and kind to an Excess,
The whole Composure Truth and Tenderness;
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Basely traduc'd by an opprobrious Tongue,
He cou'd not bear it, tho' he much cou'd bear;
Patience it self cou'd not restrain him there.
Swift to our Ears does the sad Sound arrive,
And now the Living seem the least alive.
A Death-like Pale o'er ev'ry Visage stood!
Despair and Horror seize our stiff'ning Blood,
And for a while arrest the Circ'ling Flood!
Not one but to the last Excess does show,
Unfeign'd their Kindness, as unfeign'd a Woe;
Vying in Grief, they mournfully contend
Who shall in deepest Sighs lament his Murder'd Friend.
And now the Living seem the least alive.
A Death-like Pale o'er ev'ry Visage stood!
Despair and Horror seize our stiff'ning Blood,
And for a while arrest the Circ'ling Flood!
Not one but to the last Excess does show,
Unfeign'd their Kindness, as unfeign'd a Woe;
Vying in Grief, they mournfully contend
Who shall in deepest Sighs lament his Murder'd Friend.
Nor does his Loss affect his Friends alone,
Th'affrighted Town shakes with a Gene'ral Groan:
Fame thro' the Num'rous Streets the Murder bears,
And ev'ry Face the Badge of Sadness wears.
Next, to the Country flies the Dismal Blast,
And Sorrow fixt its Standard as it past;
There is no need to bid such Tidings hast.
Among the rest, imagin, with the Muse,
His Pious Father just has read the News.
He, far remov'd, perhaps the fatal Hour
He fell was kneeling to th'Immortal Pow'r,
Imploring for his Son yet many Days,
And for the few h' had liv'd returning Praise:
Now see him, struck with Horror, trembling stand,
Pale as the Paper dropping from his Hand!
From him you must expect no Tears shou'd flow,
Stiff with his Grief, and Petrefy'd with Woe!
None in their Conduct can more Wisdom shew,
Early it to him came, and with him grew;
But what in such a Case can Wisdom do?
Nature prevails, and there's no Aid from Art;
What wise Man e'er felt not a bleeding Heart?
Ev'n he, by Heav'n so eminently own'd,
After God's Heart, and always faithful found,
At such a Time as this cou'd not refrain
From Sighs and Tears, but gave his Grief the Rein:
Thro' the wide Court his Cries before him run,
A Raving Sound!—O Absalom my Son!
Th'affrighted Town shakes with a Gene'ral Groan:
Fame thro' the Num'rous Streets the Murder bears,
And ev'ry Face the Badge of Sadness wears.
Next, to the Country flies the Dismal Blast,
And Sorrow fixt its Standard as it past;
There is no need to bid such Tidings hast.
Among the rest, imagin, with the Muse,
His Pious Father just has read the News.
He, far remov'd, perhaps the fatal Hour
He fell was kneeling to th'Immortal Pow'r,
Imploring for his Son yet many Days,
And for the few h' had liv'd returning Praise:
Now see him, struck with Horror, trembling stand,
Pale as the Paper dropping from his Hand!
From him you must expect no Tears shou'd flow,
Stiff with his Grief, and Petrefy'd with Woe!
None in their Conduct can more Wisdom shew,
Early it to him came, and with him grew;
But what in such a Case can Wisdom do?
262
What wise Man e'er felt not a bleeding Heart?
Ev'n he, by Heav'n so eminently own'd,
After God's Heart, and always faithful found,
At such a Time as this cou'd not refrain
From Sighs and Tears, but gave his Grief the Rein:
Thro' the wide Court his Cries before him run,
A Raving Sound!—O Absalom my Son!
Nor is he less by his fair Sister griev'd,
She, in whose Presence all our Woe's reliev'd!
Where e'er she comes Discomfort disappears,
We look, and in our Wonder lose our Cares!
Repeating but her Name, I now transgress
The Rules that are prescrib'd for Funeral Verse:
My wand'ring Thoughts to pleasing Notions tend,
Admiring Beauty that shou'd mourn a Friend.
Deep in her Heart this Blow has ent'rance found,
And her bright Eyes in their own Tears are drown'd!
But what can hide such Heav'nly Lights from view!
Clouded, they dart their daz'ling Lustre thro',
Like Dia'monds cover'd with the Morning Dew.
Retire bright Nymph!—our Stream of Grief you turn
Quite back—what Man can gaze on you and Mourn!
She, in whose Presence all our Woe's reliev'd!
Where e'er she comes Discomfort disappears,
We look, and in our Wonder lose our Cares!
Repeating but her Name, I now transgress
The Rules that are prescrib'd for Funeral Verse:
My wand'ring Thoughts to pleasing Notions tend,
Admiring Beauty that shou'd mourn a Friend.
Deep in her Heart this Blow has ent'rance found,
And her bright Eyes in their own Tears are drown'd!
But what can hide such Heav'nly Lights from view!
Clouded, they dart their daz'ling Lustre thro',
Like Dia'monds cover'd with the Morning Dew.
Retire bright Nymph!—our Stream of Grief you turn
Quite back—what Man can gaze on you and Mourn!
'Tis done, the Scene is clos'd; that Radiant Beam
Shut from our Sight we may resume our Theme;
Afresh the Sluces of our Sorrow flow,
And fresh Invention comes t'adorn our Woe.
Mourn all ye Youths your dear Companion gone!
His Fate be theirs that won't his Loss bemone!
Mourn him crop'd off in all his Flow'ry Bloom,
His little Warning, and relentless Doom!
Mourn him that was both Art and Learning's Boast;
Ne'er were more Riches in one Bottom lost!
Mourn that such Worth so short a Date shou'd find!
With Eyes all Languishing and Heads reclin'd,
Declare that Hope is false, and Heav'n it self unkind!
Shut from our Sight we may resume our Theme;
Afresh the Sluces of our Sorrow flow,
And fresh Invention comes t'adorn our Woe.
Mourn all ye Youths your dear Companion gone!
His Fate be theirs that won't his Loss bemone!
Mourn him crop'd off in all his Flow'ry Bloom,
His little Warning, and relentless Doom!
Mourn him that was both Art and Learning's Boast;
Ne'er were more Riches in one Bottom lost!
263
With Eyes all Languishing and Heads reclin'd,
Declare that Hope is false, and Heav'n it self unkind!
Ah wretched Youth! Ah inauspi'cious End!
Destroy'd by him that calls himself his Friend.
Nor does his Life alone, or single go,
'Tis a whole Linage murder'd at a Blow.
He was his Parents only Joy, the Prop
They lean'd upon to keep their Grandeur up!
Last of the Line from whom we now can Issue hope!
A Line that down a long Descent had run,
And but for him might long have travel'd on.
Ah barba'rous Wretch! that wou'd no Pity have,
Nor for the Present Age, or Future save:
Who wou'd to that Extremity have run,
And not reflect he was an only Son?
Whose sudden Fate more sad Effects wou'd have,
And bring the Hoary Hairs with Sorrow to the Grave.
Destroy'd by him that calls himself his Friend.
Nor does his Life alone, or single go,
'Tis a whole Linage murder'd at a Blow.
He was his Parents only Joy, the Prop
They lean'd upon to keep their Grandeur up!
Last of the Line from whom we now can Issue hope!
A Line that down a long Descent had run,
And but for him might long have travel'd on.
Ah barba'rous Wretch! that wou'd no Pity have,
Nor for the Present Age, or Future save:
Who wou'd to that Extremity have run,
And not reflect he was an only Son?
Whose sudden Fate more sad Effects wou'd have,
And bring the Hoary Hairs with Sorrow to the Grave.
This Thought does set his Grandsire in our Sight,
Now robb'd of all his Comfort and Delight:
Not more was Joseph by the Patriarch lov'd,
Nor more bemoan'd when from his Eyes remov'd:
Ah that the Parallel wou'd further hold!
Our Youth had then liv'd to be Great and Old:
This Aged Mourner, too, had found Repose,
Which now, in losing him, he'll ever lose.
Thoughtful he sits, and no Companion nigh,
Nor can the Springs of Grief his Woe supply;
His Heart dissolves, and yet his Eyes are dry!
His ev'ry Sense the piercing Ang'uish wounds,
While to himself he sighs these mournful Sounds.
For Thee I liv'd contented with my Cares,
The Crown and Glory of my Silver Hairs!
Thou wert the Angel sent me to asswage
The Woes and Pains that cleave to trembling Age.
What have I more to hope, now thou art gone,
But that my latest Sands wou'd soon be run?
And yet methinks, wou'd Heaven permit I'd live
To see thy Murderer his Reward receive—
And I shall see it—still the Pow'rs are good;
And the first written Law is, Blood for Blood.
Now robb'd of all his Comfort and Delight:
Not more was Joseph by the Patriarch lov'd,
Nor more bemoan'd when from his Eyes remov'd:
Ah that the Parallel wou'd further hold!
Our Youth had then liv'd to be Great and Old:
This Aged Mourner, too, had found Repose,
Which now, in losing him, he'll ever lose.
Thoughtful he sits, and no Companion nigh,
Nor can the Springs of Grief his Woe supply;
His Heart dissolves, and yet his Eyes are dry!
His ev'ry Sense the piercing Ang'uish wounds,
While to himself he sighs these mournful Sounds.
For Thee I liv'd contented with my Cares,
The Crown and Glory of my Silver Hairs!
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The Woes and Pains that cleave to trembling Age.
What have I more to hope, now thou art gone,
But that my latest Sands wou'd soon be run?
And yet methinks, wou'd Heaven permit I'd live
To see thy Murderer his Reward receive—
And I shall see it—still the Pow'rs are good;
And the first written Law is, Blood for Blood.
Here you that cherish an o'erboyling Heat,
And, when y'ave murder'd, say y'ave Souls too great,
Laying on Providence (that must be just)
Th'Effects of your Intemperance, Rage and Lust;
See but to what your boasted Honour tends;
In Pride it is begun, in Blood it ends.
Honour, th'Excuse you for Presumption find,
And Lordly Domineering o'er Mankind;
Honour! the fatal Tumor of the Mind;
From which our Modern Gentry take their Bent,
And think they're Noble, if they're Insolent.
True Honour (if that Vertue still remain)
Does not consist in Actions lewd and vain,
In lacquer'd Coaches, or a glitt'ring Train;
'Tis not a haughty Port, or peevish Will;
'Tis firmly hating all that's mean and ill:
To publick Good and mutual Aid it leads,
And Peace of Mind the glorious Toil succeeds.
Where was his Honour then that basely spilt
Such noble Blood, and triumph'd in the Guilt?
He thought perhaps to raise himself a Name,
But who wou'd have his Conscience for his Fame?
Tho' fled from Justice to evade his Sin,
Can he suppress the living Judge within?
Dissolv'd in Lust, in Wine his Mem'ry drown'd,
With his returning Sense Guilt will the more abound.
Thro' Unbelief it self e'en Sin will break,
And to the Soul it's frightful Message speak;
Set Future Fear directly in his View,
Terror, Despair, and all the grizly Crew:
Those direful Vultures on his Soul shall gnaw,
And make him wish for his Relief from Law.
And, when y'ave murder'd, say y'ave Souls too great,
Laying on Providence (that must be just)
Th'Effects of your Intemperance, Rage and Lust;
See but to what your boasted Honour tends;
In Pride it is begun, in Blood it ends.
Honour, th'Excuse you for Presumption find,
And Lordly Domineering o'er Mankind;
Honour! the fatal Tumor of the Mind;
From which our Modern Gentry take their Bent,
And think they're Noble, if they're Insolent.
True Honour (if that Vertue still remain)
Does not consist in Actions lewd and vain,
In lacquer'd Coaches, or a glitt'ring Train;
'Tis not a haughty Port, or peevish Will;
'Tis firmly hating all that's mean and ill:
To publick Good and mutual Aid it leads,
And Peace of Mind the glorious Toil succeeds.
Where was his Honour then that basely spilt
Such noble Blood, and triumph'd in the Guilt?
He thought perhaps to raise himself a Name,
But who wou'd have his Conscience for his Fame?
Tho' fled from Justice to evade his Sin,
Can he suppress the living Judge within?
Dissolv'd in Lust, in Wine his Mem'ry drown'd,
With his returning Sense Guilt will the more abound.
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And to the Soul it's frightful Message speak;
Set Future Fear directly in his View,
Terror, Despair, and all the grizly Crew:
Those direful Vultures on his Soul shall gnaw,
And make him wish for his Relief from Law.
Mean while, brave Youth, the Praise of ev'ry Tongue,
Thy Loss shall be bewail'd, and Vertues sung;
Thy Loss! which not alone the Vulgar hear,
The mournful Sound has reach'd the Royal Ear:
His Gracious Ear did not th'Account refuse,
And 'twas with some Concern he heard the News.
Thy Loss shall be bewail'd, and Vertues sung;
Thy Loss! which not alone the Vulgar hear,
The mournful Sound has reach'd the Royal Ear:
His Gracious Ear did not th'Account refuse,
And 'twas with some Concern he heard the News.
See but how finely Fate does twist her Chain,
And what a Round she takes to right the Slain!
Our God-like Prince with his reviving Smile
(Return'd victorious from his Warlike Toil)
Was taking then his Progress thro' the Isle;
Then, when our Sorrows for thy Death were green,
And in all Eyes the Marks of Sadness seen.
Gracious and good to all; among the rest,
He was one Night thy aged Grandsire's Guest;
Lodg'd in that Pile that might have once been thine,
And down from Thee transmitted to thy Line.
Joyful the venerable Man appears,
Like Nestor wise, and little less his Years.
Pleas'd with this Opportunity, as sent
From Providence, he takes it as 'twas meant;
And to the attentive Monarch does relate
Thy Wrong, thy Bravery, and untimely Fate;
Who then, and since has past his Royal Word,
He will no Pardon for thy Blood afford:
Aloud it cries, and from a Throne e'en draws
A King solicitous to right thy Cause.
And what a Round she takes to right the Slain!
Our God-like Prince with his reviving Smile
(Return'd victorious from his Warlike Toil)
Was taking then his Progress thro' the Isle;
Then, when our Sorrows for thy Death were green,
And in all Eyes the Marks of Sadness seen.
Gracious and good to all; among the rest,
He was one Night thy aged Grandsire's Guest;
Lodg'd in that Pile that might have once been thine,
And down from Thee transmitted to thy Line.
Joyful the venerable Man appears,
Like Nestor wise, and little less his Years.
Pleas'd with this Opportunity, as sent
From Providence, he takes it as 'twas meant;
And to the attentive Monarch does relate
Thy Wrong, thy Bravery, and untimely Fate;
Who then, and since has past his Royal Word,
He will no Pardon for thy Blood afford:
Aloud it cries, and from a Throne e'en draws
A King solicitous to right thy Cause.
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How Providence does of the Just take Care!
Our Monarch, who thy Murderer will not spare,
From Murderers is preserv'd; HE now does see
His Equity return'd with Equity.
Justice the Attribute of Heav'n prevails,
And no Prince ever better pois'd the Scales.
In vain all foreign Force, and factious Hate,
Their Plots are crush'd by his Superiour Fate,
And France with all her Strength does sink beneath the Weight.
Our Monarch, who thy Murderer will not spare,
From Murderers is preserv'd; HE now does see
His Equity return'd with Equity.
Justice the Attribute of Heav'n prevails,
And no Prince ever better pois'd the Scales.
In vain all foreign Force, and factious Hate,
Their Plots are crush'd by his Superiour Fate,
And France with all her Strength does sink beneath the Weight.
But rest, dear Youth, in Peace and Glory rest,
Of all that Vertue there can have, possest.
But O! tho' rais'd to Paradise yet we
Must mourn that Paradise w'ave lost in thee!
At least that Loss I more than others find—
For thou to me wert more than others, kind.
Thou from thy Birth and Business woud'st descend,
Smile on my Verse, and call thy self my Friend.
For me a thousand Kindnesses y'ave done,
A thousand greater yet were following on—
But all my Hopes with thee are dead and gone!
With thee the very Soul of Friendship's fled!
Ev'n Bounty too, does faint and lie for dead;
She languishes, she Gasps, and cou'd not live
Did not thy Father force her to revive:
For tho' thy Wounds to him are ever new,
(Firmly resolv'd thy Murderer to pursue
With strictest Justice) yet, amidst his Grief,
He ne'er omits to give the Poor Relief:
The Naked he does cloath, the Hungry feed,
The Dole still ready as th'Afflicted need.
But let him ne'er so kind and gen'rous be,
He shan't outdo me in my Love to Thee:
With his my Grief for Preference shall contend;
He does but mourn a Son—I mourn a Friend!
Job's Children from him torn, was blest with more,
The Comforts doubl'd he enjoy'd before;
But mine's a Loss that Nature can't restore!
Of all that Vertue there can have, possest.
But O! tho' rais'd to Paradise yet we
Must mourn that Paradise w'ave lost in thee!
At least that Loss I more than others find—
For thou to me wert more than others, kind.
Thou from thy Birth and Business woud'st descend,
Smile on my Verse, and call thy self my Friend.
For me a thousand Kindnesses y'ave done,
A thousand greater yet were following on—
But all my Hopes with thee are dead and gone!
With thee the very Soul of Friendship's fled!
Ev'n Bounty too, does faint and lie for dead;
She languishes, she Gasps, and cou'd not live
Did not thy Father force her to revive:
For tho' thy Wounds to him are ever new,
(Firmly resolv'd thy Murderer to pursue
With strictest Justice) yet, amidst his Grief,
He ne'er omits to give the Poor Relief:
The Naked he does cloath, the Hungry feed,
The Dole still ready as th'Afflicted need.
But let him ne'er so kind and gen'rous be,
He shan't outdo me in my Love to Thee:
With his my Grief for Preference shall contend;
He does but mourn a Son—I mourn a Friend!
267
The Comforts doubl'd he enjoy'd before;
But mine's a Loss that Nature can't restore!
| The Works of Mr. Robert Gould | |