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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 | The Works of Mr. Robert Gould |  |
On the Death of the much Honour'd Jame Hunte of Popham, Esq,
In an Epistle to his Lady.
MADAM,
Long had your Joys no Interruption known,
Peace at your Call, and Plenty all your Own.
Ev'n from your blooming Years (if thence we date)
We find you promis'd an auspicious Fate.
From your fair Mother's Hands your Vertues first
Receiv'd their Ply, nor cou'd be noblier nurst:
With Heav'nly Lessons she inform'd your Thought;
An Angel learn'd, and 'twas an Angel taught.
But ah! too soon the much Lamented Dame
(For us too soon!) ascended whence she came,
Honour'd in Life, and fau'tless in her Fame.
Your happy Sire survives, with Joy to see
That Loss made Good in your Prosperity
By his own Life (an ample Scheme of Truth)
He form'd your Judgment, and imbu'd your Youth.
Maturer grown, with Wisdom's weightier Lore
He fin'd the Mass; and on the shining Ore
Imprest so vast a Worth, that now we find
Your Form not more a Wonder than your Mind;
The best, as well as fairest of the Kind.
A thousand Lovers here your Love pursue;
But 'twas Martillo met your kindliest View,
Martillo! Wealthy, Gene'rous, Brave and True.
With him came Hymen Hand in Hand along,
To Heav'nly Musick tuning ev'ry Tongue;
And I, among the rest, your happy Spousals sung.
Swift fly the Genial Hours with Love beguil'd,
For twice three Times has now Lucina smil'd:
Three of the Fair, and of the Manlier make
Three more, their Birth from her Indulgence take,
So flow'd your Joys with an unmurm'ring Stream,
Scarce Beatifick Bliss a softer Theme!
Love in Profusion, Pleasure in Extreme!
O happy Life! O more than Mutual Pair!
He faithful, as his Soul had centr'd there!
And She, the Charming She, not less than Angels fair!
Peace at your Call, and Plenty all your Own.
Ev'n from your blooming Years (if thence we date)
We find you promis'd an auspicious Fate.
From your fair Mother's Hands your Vertues first
Receiv'd their Ply, nor cou'd be noblier nurst:
With Heav'nly Lessons she inform'd your Thought;
An Angel learn'd, and 'twas an Angel taught.
But ah! too soon the much Lamented Dame
(For us too soon!) ascended whence she came,
Honour'd in Life, and fau'tless in her Fame.
Your happy Sire survives, with Joy to see
That Loss made Good in your Prosperity
By his own Life (an ample Scheme of Truth)
He form'd your Judgment, and imbu'd your Youth.
Maturer grown, with Wisdom's weightier Lore
He fin'd the Mass; and on the shining Ore
Imprest so vast a Worth, that now we find
Your Form not more a Wonder than your Mind;
The best, as well as fairest of the Kind.
268
But 'twas Martillo met your kindliest View,
Martillo! Wealthy, Gene'rous, Brave and True.
With him came Hymen Hand in Hand along,
To Heav'nly Musick tuning ev'ry Tongue;
And I, among the rest, your happy Spousals sung.
Swift fly the Genial Hours with Love beguil'd,
For twice three Times has now Lucina smil'd:
Three of the Fair, and of the Manlier make
Three more, their Birth from her Indulgence take,
So flow'd your Joys with an unmurm'ring Stream,
Scarce Beatifick Bliss a softer Theme!
Love in Profusion, Pleasure in Extreme!
O happy Life! O more than Mutual Pair!
He faithful, as his Soul had centr'd there!
And She, the Charming She, not less than Angels fair!
On this soft Scene we cou'd for ever gaze,
Alternate in our Wonder and our Praise:
So far we yet on Earth cou'd never see,
A smoother Series of Felicity.—
But a malignant Planet now does shed
It's baleful Influence, and the Youngest Babe
Is doom'd to Death—or rather Life Divine;
Nor seem'd, indeed, before of Human Line:
So strange a Sweetness on his Visage shone,
Nature herself (with Wonder looking on)
Believ'd the Work too curious for her own!
His noble Father's Image just, as when
He charm'd you first, and seem'd the Man of Men.
But now a Dying Paleness veils him o'er,
Ah! Beaut'eous Child!—but Beauty now no more!
So on the verdant Leaf we oft may view,
Gilt with the Sun, a Drop of Orient Dew;
With glitt'ring Pomp a while it wantons there,
And, vary'ing Lustre, twinkles like a Star:
But the next fatal Breath that fans it o'er,
It falls, it sinks in Earth, and can be seen no more.
Alternate in our Wonder and our Praise:
So far we yet on Earth cou'd never see,
A smoother Series of Felicity.—
But a malignant Planet now does shed
It's baleful Influence, and the Youngest Babe
Is doom'd to Death—or rather Life Divine;
Nor seem'd, indeed, before of Human Line:
So strange a Sweetness on his Visage shone,
Nature herself (with Wonder looking on)
Believ'd the Work too curious for her own!
His noble Father's Image just, as when
He charm'd you first, and seem'd the Man of Men.
But now a Dying Paleness veils him o'er,
Ah! Beaut'eous Child!—but Beauty now no more!
So on the verdant Leaf we oft may view,
Gilt with the Sun, a Drop of Orient Dew;
With glitt'ring Pomp a while it wantons there,
And, vary'ing Lustre, twinkles like a Star:
269
It falls, it sinks in Earth, and can be seen no more.
Enough, enough of Cruelty is shown!
And yet one Mischief seldom comes alone,
But just like Job's to drag a Greater on.
A Gloo'mier Scene Ill Fate will next display;
The Infant but prepares his Father's Way.
Ah Heav'n! because the Son was bid retire,
Must a fresh Shaft be level'd at the Sire?
Cannot his Beaut'eous Consorts Tears avert
His hasty Fate? And must they ever part?
They who so long and fervently have lov'd,
And Wedlock to a Heav'n on Earth improv'd?
Must they, so truly one, be now disjoin'd?
Enough of Torture and Despair we find
When Bodies only are from Bodies torn;
But Soul from Soul's a Pang that can't be born!
O worse than Death! O Agonizing Woe!
Sheath, Tyrant, sheath thy Dart, or falsify the Blow!
A thousand meaner Breasts stand bare to Aim,
There strike, where there is only but a Name,
And neither Wit or Worth to give 'em down to Fame:
There strike, where thou canst stop but common Breath,
And Life's as much Oblivion as their Death.
And yet one Mischief seldom comes alone,
But just like Job's to drag a Greater on.
A Gloo'mier Scene Ill Fate will next display;
The Infant but prepares his Father's Way.
Ah Heav'n! because the Son was bid retire,
Must a fresh Shaft be level'd at the Sire?
Cannot his Beaut'eous Consorts Tears avert
His hasty Fate? And must they ever part?
They who so long and fervently have lov'd,
And Wedlock to a Heav'n on Earth improv'd?
Must they, so truly one, be now disjoin'd?
Enough of Torture and Despair we find
When Bodies only are from Bodies torn;
But Soul from Soul's a Pang that can't be born!
O worse than Death! O Agonizing Woe!
Sheath, Tyrant, sheath thy Dart, or falsify the Blow!
A thousand meaner Breasts stand bare to Aim,
There strike, where there is only but a Name,
And neither Wit or Worth to give 'em down to Fame:
There strike, where thou canst stop but common Breath,
And Life's as much Oblivion as their Death.
In vain I wish!—see there the Worthy lies,
With trembling Lips, short Breath, and closing Eyes!
Half shining out, they labour for a Sight
Of the fair Spouse, there look their last Delight;
Then veil their weary Orbs in endless Night!
So much his Passion for the Fair did reign,
He for her Sake in Death conceal'd his Pain;
Nor breath'd a parting Sigh, for fear to grieve
The dear and tende'rer part he was to leave:
Nor did she think him going till 'twas past,
But deem'd it usual sleep when 'twas the last.
There rest! thou Gene'rous, Honest, Worthy Man,
There rest! till the last Sands of Time are ran;
There rest in Deaths still Mansions, far from Strife,
Far from thy Mourning Friends, and swooning Wife,
Till thou art yielded up with them to everlasting Life!
With trembling Lips, short Breath, and closing Eyes!
Half shining out, they labour for a Sight
Of the fair Spouse, there look their last Delight;
Then veil their weary Orbs in endless Night!
So much his Passion for the Fair did reign,
He for her Sake in Death conceal'd his Pain;
Nor breath'd a parting Sigh, for fear to grieve
The dear and tende'rer part he was to leave:
270
But deem'd it usual sleep when 'twas the last.
There rest! thou Gene'rous, Honest, Worthy Man,
There rest! till the last Sands of Time are ran;
There rest in Deaths still Mansions, far from Strife,
Far from thy Mourning Friends, and swooning Wife,
Till thou art yielded up with them to everlasting Life!
Mean while thy Praises shall our Song remain,
And all the Muses on their side retain:
In thy Applause their loftiest Notes they'll joyn,
All sure of Immortality—but Mine:
My feeble Lays can ne'er enough commend
The Father, Husband, Brother, and the Friend!
Those several Sacred Ties thy Loss must moan;
No further Ties, alas; now thou art gone,
Who with so strong a Union kept 'em one.
Ah! You, his Beaute'ous Sisters, shew your Grief,
Nor let it look as if you hop'd Relief;
All pale, and in your Eyes Distraction shown,
Deplore his Death, as careless of your Own!
Y'ave lost a Brother nothing can repair,
Your Vertue only equal to his Care.
And you his Children (Children now of Woe!)
Weep on!—and Weeping's all the Grief you know;
Your Eyes at present only feel the smart,
But soon 'twill sink, and settle at the Heart.
He's gone, alas! that best your way cou'd shew,
That best on Earth did practice what he knew;
Y'are in a Lab'rinth, and Y'ave lost the Clue!
Hopeless and most forlorn, there now appears
His Friends, all speechless, and disdaining Tears:
A deeper Sorrow on their Souls does sit,
Anguish at Root, and Hearts in sunder split,
Not to be sooth'd by Hope, or charm'd by Wit:
All other Blessings Fate again may lend,
But nothing, nothing can supply the Friend!
With him, alas! in the sad Grave does ly
The Band, the Soul that knit Society!
Scarce Truth it self a more Inviolable Tye!
Ah! sigh ye Chosen Few that knew him well,
How kept you Living when you heard his Knell!
Y'ave lost!—but 'twere no Loss if we cou'd tell!
And thou! Ah Thou! the Consort of the dear
Departed Man, how shall we paint thy Care!
The outward Grief may be display'd by Art!
But how can we describe a Bleeding Heart!
A Fau'tless Love to Desperation brought!
A Soul Convulsive! and a Rack for Thought!
This only way we can thy Loss declare!
There's nothing but thy spotless Fame so dear,
That to preserve a thousand Lives you'd set;
And this sad parting was a Pang as great.
How Comfort can we to such Anguish give,
Perhaps resolv'd no Comfort to receive?
A Remedy for Sorrow so extreme
Is hard to find, and alien to our Theme;
And yet we'll try:—who knows but if our Lays
Their Flight to his Transcendent Merit raise,
It may divert your Griefs in list'ning to his Praise?
You cannot Mourn while we his Vertues show,
If you reflect but where the Vertu'ous go:
A Goodness so resolv'd (our Wonder here)
Must rise to Heav'n and make him Glorious there.
And all the Muses on their side retain:
In thy Applause their loftiest Notes they'll joyn,
All sure of Immortality—but Mine:
My feeble Lays can ne'er enough commend
The Father, Husband, Brother, and the Friend!
Those several Sacred Ties thy Loss must moan;
No further Ties, alas; now thou art gone,
Who with so strong a Union kept 'em one.
Ah! You, his Beaute'ous Sisters, shew your Grief,
Nor let it look as if you hop'd Relief;
All pale, and in your Eyes Distraction shown,
Deplore his Death, as careless of your Own!
Y'ave lost a Brother nothing can repair,
Your Vertue only equal to his Care.
And you his Children (Children now of Woe!)
Weep on!—and Weeping's all the Grief you know;
Your Eyes at present only feel the smart,
But soon 'twill sink, and settle at the Heart.
He's gone, alas! that best your way cou'd shew,
That best on Earth did practice what he knew;
Y'are in a Lab'rinth, and Y'ave lost the Clue!
Hopeless and most forlorn, there now appears
His Friends, all speechless, and disdaining Tears:
A deeper Sorrow on their Souls does sit,
Anguish at Root, and Hearts in sunder split,
Not to be sooth'd by Hope, or charm'd by Wit:
271
But nothing, nothing can supply the Friend!
With him, alas! in the sad Grave does ly
The Band, the Soul that knit Society!
Scarce Truth it self a more Inviolable Tye!
Ah! sigh ye Chosen Few that knew him well,
How kept you Living when you heard his Knell!
Y'ave lost!—but 'twere no Loss if we cou'd tell!
And thou! Ah Thou! the Consort of the dear
Departed Man, how shall we paint thy Care!
The outward Grief may be display'd by Art!
But how can we describe a Bleeding Heart!
A Fau'tless Love to Desperation brought!
A Soul Convulsive! and a Rack for Thought!
This only way we can thy Loss declare!
There's nothing but thy spotless Fame so dear,
That to preserve a thousand Lives you'd set;
And this sad parting was a Pang as great.
How Comfort can we to such Anguish give,
Perhaps resolv'd no Comfort to receive?
A Remedy for Sorrow so extreme
Is hard to find, and alien to our Theme;
And yet we'll try:—who knows but if our Lays
Their Flight to his Transcendent Merit raise,
It may divert your Griefs in list'ning to his Praise?
You cannot Mourn while we his Vertues show,
If you reflect but where the Vertu'ous go:
A Goodness so resolv'd (our Wonder here)
Must rise to Heav'n and make him Glorious there.
In Youth the shining Seeds of Worth were shown
That made so far his Future Manhood known;
Truth his Pursuit, and Friendship all his own.
As Harmony does oft our Cares controul
And tune our Ears, so kindness tun'd his Soul;
Not parcell'd out but still dispos'd of whole.
By Transmigration shou'd an Angel be
Degraded down into Mortality,
The sweetness of his Temper so he'd prove;
So wou'd the Æthereal Goodness Live and Love.
Such open Freedom in his Face he wore,
His Heart dissected cou'd not shew him more.
Courtiers and Courts he still believ'd a Cheat,
So liv'd retir'd in his Paternal Seat;
Preferr'd to Silence, and in Private Great.
Titles of Honour (worn so oft with shame)
He shun'd, nor wou'd so meanly raise a Name;
But took th'unbeaten honest Path to Fame:
In vain they made their Court; he fled their Charms,
Blest with a dearer Beauty in his Arms.
Thus, pleas'd, his unambitious Hours he past;
Only the eager Minutes flew too fast.
True, when his Country's service claim'd his Care,
As then, when he the Sword of Justice bare,
None Noblier ever fill'd the Shrieval Chair:
But that o'erpast, to Peace he did retire,
And his own Walls did bound his whole Desire.
Not that he thoughtless, or inglorious lay,
Dissolv'd in Ease, and dozing Life away:
With springing Day he wou'd abroad repair.
To chase the Stag, or course the Timo'rous Hare;
Filling the Echoing Country with the Cries
Of Dogs pursuing, and the Game that flies.
This Part was sport; but all the rest of Life
Was Prayer to Heav'n, Endearment to his Wife,
Acts of Compassion, and composing Strife.
If forc'd by Business London e'er to see,
So long 'twas perfect loss of Liberty:
To what e'er Faith the Obsequious Cits are giv'n,
He thought such Crowding not the Way to Heav'n.
His Converse, like his Life, (our Copious Theme)
Ran even on, and never knew Extreme.
For Patience still he did his Heart prepare;
Nor was it ever wanted—but 'twas there.
A Steady Prudence did his Actions guide,
A Prudence that had Courage by her Side,
A Courage still Victorious when 'twas try'd.
In scorn of Pride he to the height wou'd go,
But then his love to Meekness stoop'd as low.
A Noble Income Libe'rally he spent
In ev'ry Vertu'ous Use for which 'twas lent;
O Contradiction! Rich, and yet Content!
His Hospitable Doors were still unbarr'd;
And if the Poor but whisper'd they were heard.
No biting Censures e'er employ'd his Tongue;
As much he kept his Heart from thinking wrong;
But wittingly an Injury to do,
Was such a Guilt his Conscience never knew.
With this Ill Fate the Rural Hinds are curst,
Their Greatest Neighbours always are their worst;
But carefuller the Shepherd cou'd not be
Of his Own Flock, than of the Shepherd, HE:
To strip the Tenant bare tho' others strive,
It was his only Pride to see 'em thrive.—
Ah short! too short a time!—and yet if thro'
His Piety that Little Time we view,
'Twas many, many Years he liv'd in few!
O wond'rous Man! O Greatness soon Atchiev'd!
But sooner gone! and ne'er to be Retriev'd!
O Loss! whose sound thro' all our Albion runs,
The Goodliest, and the Worthiest of her Sons!
O Loss! that I the Loudliest must deplore!
And be till Death repeating o'er and o'er—
No more! the Patron and the Friend no more!
That made so far his Future Manhood known;
Truth his Pursuit, and Friendship all his own.
As Harmony does oft our Cares controul
And tune our Ears, so kindness tun'd his Soul;
Not parcell'd out but still dispos'd of whole.
272
Degraded down into Mortality,
The sweetness of his Temper so he'd prove;
So wou'd the Æthereal Goodness Live and Love.
Such open Freedom in his Face he wore,
His Heart dissected cou'd not shew him more.
Courtiers and Courts he still believ'd a Cheat,
So liv'd retir'd in his Paternal Seat;
Preferr'd to Silence, and in Private Great.
Titles of Honour (worn so oft with shame)
He shun'd, nor wou'd so meanly raise a Name;
But took th'unbeaten honest Path to Fame:
In vain they made their Court; he fled their Charms,
Blest with a dearer Beauty in his Arms.
Thus, pleas'd, his unambitious Hours he past;
Only the eager Minutes flew too fast.
True, when his Country's service claim'd his Care,
As then, when he the Sword of Justice bare,
None Noblier ever fill'd the Shrieval Chair:
But that o'erpast, to Peace he did retire,
And his own Walls did bound his whole Desire.
Not that he thoughtless, or inglorious lay,
Dissolv'd in Ease, and dozing Life away:
With springing Day he wou'd abroad repair.
To chase the Stag, or course the Timo'rous Hare;
Filling the Echoing Country with the Cries
Of Dogs pursuing, and the Game that flies.
This Part was sport; but all the rest of Life
Was Prayer to Heav'n, Endearment to his Wife,
Acts of Compassion, and composing Strife.
If forc'd by Business London e'er to see,
So long 'twas perfect loss of Liberty:
To what e'er Faith the Obsequious Cits are giv'n,
He thought such Crowding not the Way to Heav'n.
His Converse, like his Life, (our Copious Theme)
Ran even on, and never knew Extreme.
273
Nor was it ever wanted—but 'twas there.
A Steady Prudence did his Actions guide,
A Prudence that had Courage by her Side,
A Courage still Victorious when 'twas try'd.
In scorn of Pride he to the height wou'd go,
But then his love to Meekness stoop'd as low.
A Noble Income Libe'rally he spent
In ev'ry Vertu'ous Use for which 'twas lent;
O Contradiction! Rich, and yet Content!
His Hospitable Doors were still unbarr'd;
And if the Poor but whisper'd they were heard.
No biting Censures e'er employ'd his Tongue;
As much he kept his Heart from thinking wrong;
But wittingly an Injury to do,
Was such a Guilt his Conscience never knew.
With this Ill Fate the Rural Hinds are curst,
Their Greatest Neighbours always are their worst;
But carefuller the Shepherd cou'd not be
Of his Own Flock, than of the Shepherd, HE:
To strip the Tenant bare tho' others strive,
It was his only Pride to see 'em thrive.—
Ah short! too short a time!—and yet if thro'
His Piety that Little Time we view,
'Twas many, many Years he liv'd in few!
O wond'rous Man! O Greatness soon Atchiev'd!
But sooner gone! and ne'er to be Retriev'd!
O Loss! whose sound thro' all our Albion runs,
The Goodliest, and the Worthiest of her Sons!
O Loss! that I the Loudliest must deplore!
And be till Death repeating o'er and o'er—
No more! the Patron and the Friend no more!
But whither am I going?—whither stray
My wayward Lines, and weep me from my Way?
Forgive me, Madam, (if too deep a sense
Of so much Goodness lost be an offence;)
The way to your Repose I wou'd have shown,
But seeking that, alas! have lost my own.
Painting his Vertues but conveys his view
Back to our Hearts, and makes 'em bleed anew!
'Tis not the Muse that can your Griefs abate,
Reduc'd to a much more unhappy State;
The Poet deepliest rues the Patron's Fate.
Be then your Peace some more Instructive Care;—
And Lo! the Gracious Pow'rs already hear:
Your Father comes your Sorrows to allay,
And thus, methinks, the Oracle does say;
He that at once has all the reach of Sense,
With all the force of Roman Eloquence.
My wayward Lines, and weep me from my Way?
274
Of so much Goodness lost be an offence;)
The way to your Repose I wou'd have shown,
But seeking that, alas! have lost my own.
Painting his Vertues but conveys his view
Back to our Hearts, and makes 'em bleed anew!
'Tis not the Muse that can your Griefs abate,
Reduc'd to a much more unhappy State;
The Poet deepliest rues the Patron's Fate.
Be then your Peace some more Instructive Care;—
And Lo! the Gracious Pow'rs already hear:
Your Father comes your Sorrows to allay,
And thus, methinks, the Oracle does say;
He that at once has all the reach of Sense,
With all the force of Roman Eloquence.
O Daughter! while that mourning Dew distills,
You but Repine at what the God-head wills.
What ever Fate's to be our Portion here,
It grows severer if 'tis thought severe.
W'are born with the Condition not to stay;
Th'unhappier most the later call'd away.
True, were we call'd to Misery we might moan,
But 'tis from Mise'ry that the Good are gone.
Shou'd after Death the Soul no more remain,
'Twere better so to sleep, than wake to Pain:
But it remains, and will to Glory go,
And this believ'd, prepost'erous is your Woe.
If our Departed Friends survey our Tears,
Then your unrest must certainly be theirs;
And if not such an Intercourse there be,
Why do you shew a Love they cannot see?
Were Heav'n it self dispos'd to give Relief,
'Twou'd yet deny it to Immoderate Grief.
Compare your Fate with Mine, and soon you'll see
I've deeper drank of Infelicity.
Your Consort (and so far his Death was late)
Had been some Years the Prophet of his Fate;
And you were half prepar'd to bear his Doom,
As you were well assur'd 'twou'd quickly come.
I lost your Mother, snatch'd from Mortal Sight,
In all her Lustre of Meridian Light,
Balm on her Lips, and Peace upon her Tongue,
And Human Hope at full, to keep the Blessing long!
Then for your Son, he was a Flow'r new blown;
I lost your Brother just to Manhood grown,
When (making Lighter my declining Years)
I thought to reap the Fruit of all my Cares:
Nor to the Grave did he by Sickness come,
Cut off, Relentless, by an Angry Doom.
Remember my Submission at his Fate,
And if th'Example's Worthy, Imitate,
A thousand Comforts yet remain your Own,
To dry your Eyes, and mitigate your Moan.
Your Children, Father, and your Grand-sire live,
Your Husband's Beaute'ous Sisters yet survive;
A Plente'ous Fortune does thy Guardian stand;
With Vertue, and the World at thy Command.—
Thy Thanks for these remaining Blessings pay;
And if Sollicitous to have 'em stay,
Abide Resign'd, for those Remov'd away.
You but Repine at what the God-head wills.
What ever Fate's to be our Portion here,
It grows severer if 'tis thought severe.
W'are born with the Condition not to stay;
Th'unhappier most the later call'd away.
True, were we call'd to Misery we might moan,
But 'tis from Mise'ry that the Good are gone.
Shou'd after Death the Soul no more remain,
'Twere better so to sleep, than wake to Pain:
But it remains, and will to Glory go,
And this believ'd, prepost'erous is your Woe.
If our Departed Friends survey our Tears,
Then your unrest must certainly be theirs;
And if not such an Intercourse there be,
Why do you shew a Love they cannot see?
Were Heav'n it self dispos'd to give Relief,
'Twou'd yet deny it to Immoderate Grief.
Compare your Fate with Mine, and soon you'll see
I've deeper drank of Infelicity.
275
Had been some Years the Prophet of his Fate;
And you were half prepar'd to bear his Doom,
As you were well assur'd 'twou'd quickly come.
I lost your Mother, snatch'd from Mortal Sight,
In all her Lustre of Meridian Light,
Balm on her Lips, and Peace upon her Tongue,
And Human Hope at full, to keep the Blessing long!
Then for your Son, he was a Flow'r new blown;
I lost your Brother just to Manhood grown,
When (making Lighter my declining Years)
I thought to reap the Fruit of all my Cares:
Nor to the Grave did he by Sickness come,
Cut off, Relentless, by an Angry Doom.
Remember my Submission at his Fate,
And if th'Example's Worthy, Imitate,
A thousand Comforts yet remain your Own,
To dry your Eyes, and mitigate your Moan.
Your Children, Father, and your Grand-sire live,
Your Husband's Beaute'ous Sisters yet survive;
A Plente'ous Fortune does thy Guardian stand;
With Vertue, and the World at thy Command.—
Thy Thanks for these remaining Blessings pay;
And if Sollicitous to have 'em stay,
Abide Resign'd, for those Remov'd away.
| The Works of Mr. Robert Gould | |