 | The Works of Thomas Love Peacock |  |
178
ON THE DEATH OF A LAP DOG CALL'D LADY
Oh could I wake the sounding Lyre
To dithyrambic strains sublime;
Or would the gentle Muse inspire
One single spark of Pindar's fire,
To aid my feeble rhyme:
To dithyrambic strains sublime;
Or would the gentle Muse inspire
One single spark of Pindar's fire,
To aid my feeble rhyme:
Then, Lady, then thy praise to tell
Would I full many a stanza fill,
Long on thy talents would I dwell,
Thy charming bark, thy piteous yell
Most musically shrill!
Would I full many a stanza fill,
Long on thy talents would I dwell,
Thy charming bark, thy piteous yell
Most musically shrill!
Though to record thy humble fate
No pompous monument arise,
Yet on thy lowly dust shall wait
(Denied how often to the great)
A tear from beauty's eyes!
No pompous monument arise,
Yet on thy lowly dust shall wait
(Denied how often to the great)
A tear from beauty's eyes!
Poor Lady! To thy humble urn
Far better strains than these are due;
None surely can thy memory spurn;
If beauty for thy loss can mourn
The Muse must mourn thee too.
Far better strains than these are due;
None surely can thy memory spurn;
If beauty for thy loss can mourn
The Muse must mourn thee too.
| The Works of Thomas Love Peacock | |