Poems on Several Occasions With some Select Essays in Prose. In Two Volumes. By John Hughes; Adorn'd with Sculptures |
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 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
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A MONUMENTAL ODE. To the Memory of Mrs. Elizabeth Hughes,
Late Wife of Edward Hughes, Esq; of Hertingfordbury in the County of Hertford, and Daughter of Richard Harrison, Esq; of Balls in the same County. Obiit 15 Nov. Mdcc xiv.
I.
See! how those dropping Monuments decay!Frail Mansions of the silent Dead,
Whose Souls to uncorrupting Regions fled,
With a wise Scorn their mouldring Dust survey.
Their Tombs are rais'd from Dust as well as they;
For see! to Dust they both return,
And Time consumes alike the Ashes and the Urn.
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II.
We ask the Sculptor's Art in vainTo make us for a Space our selves survive;
In Parian Stone we proudly breathe again,
Or seem in figur'd Brass to live.
Yet Stone and Brass our Hopes betray,
Age steals the mimick Forms and Characters away.
In vain, O Ægypt, to the wondring Skies
With Giant Pride thy Pyramids arise;
Whate'er their vast and gloomy Vaults contain,
No Names distinct of their great Dead remain,
Beneath the Mass confus'd, in heaps thy Monarchs lie,
Unknown, and blended in Mortality.
III.
To Death our selves, and all our Works we owe.But there is nought, O Muse, can save
Our Memories from Darkness and the Grave,
And some short After-life bestow?
That Task is mine, the Muse replies,
And hark! She tunes the sacred Lyre!
Verse is the last of human Works that dies,
When Virtue does the Song inspire.
IV.
Then look, Eliza, happy Saint, look down!Pause from Immortal Joys a-while
To hear, and gracious with a Smile
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Say how in thy Life's scanty Space,
So short a Space, so wondrous bright,
Bright as a Summer's Day, short as a Summer's Night,
Cou'dst thou find Room for ev'ry crouded Grace?
As if thy thrifty Soul foreknew,
Like a wise Envoy, Heav'n's Intent
Soon to recall whom it had sent,
And all its Task resolv'd at once to do.
Or wert thou but a Traveller below,
That hither didst a-while repair,
Curious our Customs and our Laws to know?
And, sick'ning in our grosser Air,
And tir'd of vain repeated Sights,
Our foolish Cares, our false Delights,
Back to thy native Seats wou'dst go?
Oh! since to us thou wilt no more return,
Permit thy Friends, the faithful Few
Who best thy numerous Virtues knew,
Themselves, not Thee to mourn.
V.
Now pensive Muse, enlarge thy Flight!(By turns the pensive Muses love
The Hilly Heights and Shady Grove)
Behold where swelling to the Sight
Balls, a fair Structure, graceful stands!
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Sees Hertford's ancient Town, and Lands
Where Nature's Hand in slow Meanders leads
The Lee's clear Stream its Course to flow
Thro' flow'ry Vales, and moisten'd Meads,
And far around in beauteous Prospect spreads
Her Map of Plenty all below.
'Twas here—and sacred be the Spot of Earth!
Eliza's Soul, born first above,
Descended to an humbler Birth,
And with a Mortal's Frailties strove.
So, on some tow'ring Peak that meets the Sky,
When missive Seraphs downward fly,
They stop, and for a-while alight,
Put off their Rays Cœlestial-bright,
Then take some milder Form familiar to our Eye.
VI.
Swiftly Her Infant Virtues grew:Water'd by Heav'n's peculiar Care
Her morning Bloom was doubly Fair,
Like Summer's Day-break, when we see
The fresh-dropp'd Stores of rosy Dew,
(Transparent Beauties of the Dawn)
Spread o'er the Grass their Cobweb-Lawn,
Or hang moist Pearls on ev'ry Tree.
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Her Friends behold, and joyful smile,
Nor think the Sun's exhaling Ray
Will change the Scene ere Noon of Day,
Dry up the glist'ring Drops, and draw those Dews away.
VII.
Yet first, to fill her Orb of Life,Behold, in each Relation dear,
The pious Saint, the duteous Child appear,
The tender Sister, and the faithful Wife.
Alas! But must one Circlet of the Year
Unite in Bliss, in Grief divide
The destin'd Bridegroom and the Bride?
Stop, gen'rous Youth, the gathering Tear,
That as you read these Lines or hear
Perhaps may start, and seem to say,
That short-liv'd Year was but a Day!
Forbear—nor fruitless Sorrowings now employ,
Think she was lent a-while, not giv'n,
(Such was th'appointed Will of Heav'n)
Then grateful call that Year an Age of virtuous Joy.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |