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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Damon, a Funeral Eclogue:
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 | The Works of Mr. Robert Gould |  |
Damon, a Funeral Eclogue:
On the much Lamented Hen. Bayntun, Esq;
Strephon, Menalcas.STREPHON.
We have not for Mirana dry'd our Eyes,
When Damon's Fate does give us fresh surprize;
E'er we cou'd rise from that amazing Blow
W'are struck anew, and laid again as low!
MENALCAS.
I thought w'ad not one Tear yet left to fall,
I thought that Angel had Exhausted all:
When see! again they stream from ev'ry Eye!
Nor less than such a Sea of Grief cou'd such a Loss supply!
STREPHON.
He was, Menalcas, all he here cou'd be,
Th'abstracted Goodness of Humanity:
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His Mind Capacious, and his Form Divine.
But what does Beauty, Birth, or Pow'r avail
When Fate does the weak Fort of Life assail?
Snatch'd from our Hopes ere half his Race was run!
Ah Early Good! and ah too Early gone!
Why are the Hero's Matchless in Desert
The first that must from all their Comforts part?
Or are we truely what old Plautus calls
Us miserable Mortals? Tennis Balls,
Which Fate in sport, without regarding Who,
Does strike away, and still, profusely, call for new:
Cruel! for thus the Wise, the Good, the Brave,
Are not distinguish't from the vilest Slave,
One Common Chance attends 'em all, and one Promiscu'ous Grave.
Of Kindness Nature molded half his Heart,
Of Wit, and Brav'ry form'd the other part.
Favour from most we can but Partial call;
He with extended Arms embrac'd us all.
Scarce Heav'n it self more Liberal of it's Store;
To know him was to be no longer Poor.
Had but the Muse a Voice to reach his Fame,
Such Worth shou'd never want a Deathless Name.
MENALCAS.
Who cou'd believe, when favour'd with a Son,
Who thought when the Boys Race of Life begun,
His Noble Sire's was so nigh being run?
A Prospect then of op'ning Joys were seen,
All Great and Bright, with not a Cloud between;
But while we gaz'd and did their Glory prize,
Heav'n shut the Scene for ever from our Eyes!
O dark Eclipse! O Worth for ever fled!
The Living Beggar'd to enrich the Dead!
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Curst be the Tongue that, with a pois'nous blast,
His bright unclouded Fame wou'd overcast:
Now w'are in Mourning; but the Muse e'er long
Shall change her Stile, and think upon his Wrong;
Revenge her Noble Patron's injur'd Fame,
And fix (who e'er 'tis) on the hated Name
As true an Ignominious lasting Brand,
As red-hot Iron on a Villains, Hand:
And all too small for th'opprobious Slave,
That lets his Malice reach beyond the Grave.
MENALCAS.
Let 'em alone, let 'em their Fictions frame,
They reach not Damon's ever-honour'd Name:
The Publick Voice does know 'tis Private spite,
And Envy, Friend, was never in the Right.
—But tell me, how does Adorissa fare?
How does that Beauty her Affliction bear
Now she is lanch't into this Sea of Care?
Her Grief, methinks, no Reason shou'd controul;
He was her Joy, her Life,—he was her very Soul!
STREPHON.
When on his Bed the dying Swain did lye,
As full of Love, so full of Piety,
She wringing of her Hands and weeping by.
The World (he cry'd) the World I can despise,
With all its trifling Joys and Gawdy Vanities,
But Ah! from Thee Thus to be torn away!—
Grief stopt him here, he cou'd no further say,
For only, only SHE was worth his Stay;
The doubly bitter thought from HER to part
Deeper than Death did pierce his Labou'ring Heart.
All Wit, all Beauty, and all Truth her own;
To be to her in that Relation known,
It hardly is more Heav'n where he is gone.
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He gaz'd on her and, with a Sigh, expir'd.
What here cou'd the Divine Afflicted do?
What Pow'r oppose against the Cruel Blow?
Swooning, she fell into her Womens Arms,
And in a Moment lost a Thousand Charms.
Her Warmth, her Colour, Senses, all were fled,
And, of the Two, she seem'd the Real Dead:
And dead we thought her, not a Sign was shown,
Nothing to tell but that her Soul was flown.
But who that's Sick, can at a Wish, have Ease?
Or can the Wretched die what Hour they please.
Reviv'd, her bright, her All-Commanding Eyes
She cast up, half in Anger, to the Skies;
Accus'd the Pow'rs that gave her Double Woe,
To take him hence, and not his Consort too.
Ah Charming Adorissa! spare that Breath,
Thou more than Angel talk not yet of Death!
Think on the Double Pledge he left behind,
The more Despair presides, the more to them unkind:
Like You, the Daughter; and like Him, the Son;
Ah! who will teach 'em after you are gone,
So well the Follies of the Age to shun?
Who can so truly point the Boy the Race
His Noble Father did to Glory trace,
And press him swifter onwards in the shining Chase?
And then your own Example is so bright,
Your other Comfort will have all the Light
Vertue can give, to guide her Goings right.
O Live! fam'd like thy Father's Mother's be,
In Worth, in Honours Eminent as She,
In Age, Maternal Care, and Piety—
But mourn!—Ah! mourn his Loss yet many Years,
Spare but the Life, be lavish of thy Tears!
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Amid'st our Grief we may this Comfort find,
H' has left, in Minature, another self behind:
And, to speak justly, we have ne'r before
Seen one so very Young that promis'd more.
STREPHON.
Admire the Boy, (the Boy, too, I admire)
But not forget the Vertues of the Sire.
No, Damon, if I banish THEE my Mind,
Be Life Improspe'rous, and be Heav'n unkind—
—But hark! the Winds are loud, without Controul
They Rave, as if they meant to shake the Pole:
The Skies all with one dismal Noise resound,
In Sables hid, and hung with Horror round.
By this Tempestuous Night is well exprest
The Tumult and Confusion of my Breast;
The Passions all in Arms to rob me of my Rest.
And then, perhaps, the coming Dawn may see
The feather'd Quire assume their Harmony,
The Heav'n's disburthen'd, and a Glorious Morn
All Vernal Gay, as Nature just were born.
But ah! the Rising Light will bring us on
No Objects, but of Damon dead and gone!
With Grief that in no Bounds we shall contain,
A Ruin'd House, and an Impoverish'd Plain!
How much in Him did late his Country boast?
How much in Him has his dear Country lost?
Lost an Impartial Lover of her Laws,
The Church and King a Champion in their Cause.
Honour, her Guide; and Honesty the Prop
That strongliest kept her fainting Credit up:
And O! the Muse that does his Worth commend,
Has lost, at once, her Judge, her Theme, her Patron and her Friend!
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'Tis late—Rest to the Wretched gives Relief;
To her Embraces Sacrifice your Grief:
In her soft Arms the Soul no Anguish meets,
For the tir'd Mind drinks deepest of her Sweets.
STREPHON.
Think not, Menalcas, sleep will ease our Care,
But rather make our Loss the heavier bear.
While in her Charge the Clay does fast remain,
Th'Immortal Part, not shackl'd in her Chain,
Will bring him to our Visionary View,
And make us, Nightly, mourn him o'er anew?—
But let us go; least taking Time too large,
We be not up against Alexis knocks:
That Swain, you know, is Early with his Charge:
We may, at once, both weep and tend our Flocks.
| The Works of Mr. Robert Gould | |