 | The Poetical Works of Mr. William Pattison |  |
209
AN ELEGY:
To the Memory of a Friend, begun in his Sickness.
[_]
N. B. Mr. Roche recovered, and the Public are obliged to Him for some fine Pieces hereunto annexed.
Yet, yet, He lives—O yet kind Heavens spare
The dear lamented Object of my Prayer!
Vain Hope, vain Wish—else why fresh Sorrows rise,
Spring from my Soul, and overflow my Eyes.
What chilling Anguish freezes ev'ry Part,
Sure tis my Friend just dying from my Heart:
Griefs big with Griefs, and Pangs on Pangs deplore
My dearest Friend, perhaps my Friend no more.
Ill-boding Thought—
Hah! from whence streams that melancholy Gloom,
Whence groan'd that Echo, from some hollow Tomb
'Tis sure the Call of Death! my Soul attend;
Lo! hark! I know the Voice, it cries, my Friend;
How pale it looks—but see the Vision o'er,
'Tis he—what Roche! I knew that Form before.
It must be so—Yet whence this guilty Fear!
Why freeze my Nerves, why bristles ev'ry Hair?
Did we thus meet! ah ever friendly stay,
What do I wish—alas I faint away.
Whence rose my Fears! the fictious Vision's flown,
Yet sure, too sure I hear some mournful Groan.
Those baleful Eughs that o'er the Window wave,
Could their deep Murmurs thus my Sense deceive!
Those Mid-night Beams, that pale yon Moon-light Wall;
Could they the Image of my Friend recall?
Could these Delusions thus disturb my Breast,
Startle my Soul, and burst the Bands of Rest?
Ah no! those Objects innocent appear,
Nor shock my Sight, nor terrify my Ear.
But hark! the horary-resounding Bower,
Doleful, proclaims the lonesome Mid-night Hour.
Now Sleep with downy Wings broods o'er the Ground,
While Death wide-stalking shapes his Nightly Round,
With Sleep's black Pinions, plumes his Ebon Dart,
And dismally beguiles the Slumberer's Heart.
Ah me! my Friend, my sickly Friend arise,
Death, Death lies ambush'd in the soft Disguise.
The dear lamented Object of my Prayer!
Vain Hope, vain Wish—else why fresh Sorrows rise,
Spring from my Soul, and overflow my Eyes.
What chilling Anguish freezes ev'ry Part,
Sure tis my Friend just dying from my Heart:
Griefs big with Griefs, and Pangs on Pangs deplore
My dearest Friend, perhaps my Friend no more.
Ill-boding Thought—
210
Whence groan'd that Echo, from some hollow Tomb
'Tis sure the Call of Death! my Soul attend;
Lo! hark! I know the Voice, it cries, my Friend;
How pale it looks—but see the Vision o'er,
'Tis he—what Roche! I knew that Form before.
It must be so—Yet whence this guilty Fear!
Why freeze my Nerves, why bristles ev'ry Hair?
Did we thus meet! ah ever friendly stay,
What do I wish—alas I faint away.
Whence rose my Fears! the fictious Vision's flown,
Yet sure, too sure I hear some mournful Groan.
Those baleful Eughs that o'er the Window wave,
Could their deep Murmurs thus my Sense deceive!
Those Mid-night Beams, that pale yon Moon-light Wall;
Could they the Image of my Friend recall?
Could these Delusions thus disturb my Breast,
Startle my Soul, and burst the Bands of Rest?
211
Nor shock my Sight, nor terrify my Ear.
But hark! the horary-resounding Bower,
Doleful, proclaims the lonesome Mid-night Hour.
Now Sleep with downy Wings broods o'er the Ground,
While Death wide-stalking shapes his Nightly Round,
With Sleep's black Pinions, plumes his Ebon Dart,
And dismally beguiles the Slumberer's Heart.
Ah me! my Friend, my sickly Friend arise,
Death, Death lies ambush'd in the soft Disguise.
Torn from the dear Recesses of thy Heart,
For ever! ah for ever we must part.
Nay, cease to tremble, stop that falling Tear,
'Tis I, my Friend; can I create thy Fear?
How we have lov'd, 'tis thou alone canst tell;
How we have lov'd, 'tis thou alone canst feel.
Yet would I sooth thy doubt-revolving Soul,
But Heaven forbids, and angry Tales controul.
Nor can Discourse as once beguile the Hours,
They're past—my Wish is all—I come, ye Powers.
For ever! ah for ever we must part.
Nay, cease to tremble, stop that falling Tear,
'Tis I, my Friend; can I create thy Fear?
How we have lov'd, 'tis thou alone canst tell;
How we have lov'd, 'tis thou alone canst feel.
Yet would I sooth thy doubt-revolving Soul,
But Heaven forbids, and angry Tales controul.
212
They're past—my Wish is all—I come, ye Powers.
O ever-honour'd! long-lamented Friend,
And is it thus our promis'd Joys must end?
And is it thus our promis'd Joys must end?
| The Poetical Works of Mr. William Pattison | |