 | Miscellanies in Prose and Verse |  |
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On the DEATH of Sir ERASMUS PHILIPPS,
Unfortunately drowned in the River Avon, near Bath, October 15, 1743.
Why dash the floods? What cries my soul affright?How steep the precipice? how dark the night?
Then Virtue sunk in Avon's fatal wave,
No friend to succour, no kind hand to save;
The circling waters hide his sinking head,
The treach'rous bottom forms his oozy bed.
Behold the bloated corps, the visage pale;
See here what virtue, wealth, and birth avail.
What now remains? beneath this load of pain
To weep is nature, but to weep is vain.
What now remains? It yet remains to try
What hope, what peace, religion can supply:
It yet remains to catch the parting ray,
To note his worth ere mem'ry fade away,
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Recount his virtues, and transcribe his mind.
It yet remains with holy rites to lay,
The breathless reliques in their kindred clay.
Ye wise, ye good, the holy rites attend,
Here lies the wise man's guide, the good man's friend.
Awhile let faith exalt th'adoring eye,
And meditation deep suspend the sigh;
Then close the grave, and sound the fun'ral knell,
Each drop a tear, and take a last farewell;
In peace retire, and wish to live as well.
| Miscellanies in Prose and Verse | |