The Shamrock or, Hibernian Cresses. A Collection of Poems, Songs, Epigrams, &c. Latin as well as English, The Original Production of Ireland. To which are subjoined thoughts on the prevailing system of school education, respecting young ladies as well as gentlemen: with practical proposals for a reformation [by Samuel Whyte] |
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AN ELEGY, On the much-lamented Death of The Reverend JOHN LAWSON, D. D. S. F. T. C. D. |
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 | The Shamrock |  |
46
AN ELEGY, On the much-lamented Death of The Reverend JOHN LAWSON, D. D. S. F. T. C. D.
What shall the fell Destroyers of Mankind
Still live, with Glory, down from Age to Age?
Shall they a Place in Fame's fair Annals find;
And bloom, immortal, in the story'd Page?
Still live, with Glory, down from Age to Age?
Shall they a Place in Fame's fair Annals find;
And bloom, immortal, in the story'd Page?
Shall they, whose Pride no other Worth can boast,
Than Realms laid waste, and Monarchies o'erturn'd,
Shall they survive, 'till Time itself be lost,
Prais'd by each Tongue, by every Art adorn'd?
Than Realms laid waste, and Monarchies o'erturn'd,
Shall they survive, 'till Time itself be lost,
Prais'd by each Tongue, by every Art adorn'd?
Shall these Things be?—yet peaceful Virtue die,
Without the Tribute of one pious Groan?
And, modest Worth, without a Tear, a Sigh,
Sink to the Grave, unheard of, and unknown?
Without the Tribute of one pious Groan?
And, modest Worth, without a Tear, a Sigh,
Sink to the Grave, unheard of, and unknown?
At dire Ambition's Call, when Millions bleed,
Shall Honour's Wreath the Victor's Temples bind?
Yet no Reward await the honest Deed?
No Glory crown the pure, and spotless Mind?
Shall Honour's Wreath the Victor's Temples bind?
Yet no Reward await the honest Deed?
No Glory crown the pure, and spotless Mind?
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And, shall the Muse, too, prostitute her Tongue
To Wealth's vain Glare, or Power's unsteady Blaze?
Whilst good Men fall, neglected, and unsung;
No Heart to mourn them, and no Hand to praise.
To Wealth's vain Glare, or Power's unsteady Blaze?
Whilst good Men fall, neglected, and unsung;
No Heart to mourn them, and no Hand to praise.
It shall not be—Even now, athwart the Gloom,
She comes, the Goddess comes, to praise, to mourn,
To tear the Wreath from dire Ambition's Tomb,
And place it high on Virtue's honour'd Urn.
She comes, the Goddess comes, to praise, to mourn,
To tear the Wreath from dire Ambition's Tomb,
And place it high on Virtue's honour'd Urn.
Though abler Hands the glorious Task decline;
Though Dunkin, modest, hides the heavenly Fire;
Though Shepherd's dumb—yet shall one Ray divine
The last, the meanest of the Train inspire.
Though Dunkin, modest, hides the heavenly Fire;
Though Shepherd's dumb—yet shall one Ray divine
The last, the meanest of the Train inspire.
Fate gave the Word—and Lawson is no more—
Still green in Earth the noble Ruin lies:—
How shall the weeping Muse the Loss deplore?
Harsh flow the Strains that real Grief supplies.
Still green in Earth the noble Ruin lies:—
How shall the weeping Muse the Loss deplore?
Harsh flow the Strains that real Grief supplies.
Yet, though the Strains be harsh, though weak the Tongue,
That pays (ill Chance!) this tributary Verse,
The Heart shall aid the melancholy Song,
And pour its Sorrows on thy honour'd Hearse.
That pays (ill Chance!) this tributary Verse,
The Heart shall aid the melancholy Song,
And pour its Sorrows on thy honour'd Hearse.
Had it pleas'd Heaven—What has my Phrenzy said?
Where would my Wishes point? Frail Child of Dust!
Hark! From the Grave, cries out the reverend Dead,
That Heaven is wise; and all its Ways are just.
Where would my Wishes point? Frail Child of Dust!
Hark! From the Grave, cries out the reverend Dead,
That Heaven is wise; and all its Ways are just.
O Worth, belov'd, and lost! admir'd, and mourn'd!
Patient to hear; indulgent to redress!
With every Virtue, every Grace adorn'd,
A Heart to pity, and a Hand to bless!
Patient to hear; indulgent to redress!
With every Virtue, every Grace adorn'd,
A Heart to pity, and a Hand to bless!
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Who, now, Affliction's Sorrows shall assuage?
Who, now, the Tears of suffering Virtue dry?
Who guard the Orphan's unprotected Age?
Or, kindle Gladness in the Widow's Eye?
Who, now, the Tears of suffering Virtue dry?
Who guard the Orphan's unprotected Age?
Or, kindle Gladness in the Widow's Eye?
Who, now, our varying Passions shall command?
Teach the stern Breast to feel another's Woe?
Ope the hard Miser's unrelenting Hand?
And bid the Streams of Charity o'erflow?
Teach the stern Breast to feel another's Woe?
Ope the hard Miser's unrelenting Hand?
And bid the Streams of Charity o'erflow?
These were thy Arts—and, glowing with the Theme,
Whilst Truths divine came, mended, from thy Tongue,
Vice heard, abash'd—Youth caught th'inspiring Flame,
And pleas'd Attention on thy Accents hung.
Whilst Truths divine came, mended, from thy Tongue,
Vice heard, abash'd—Youth caught th'inspiring Flame,
And pleas'd Attention on thy Accents hung.
Respected Shade! Now, from the Realms of Joy,
Indulgent, listen to our fervent Prayer!
Still, let thy Alma's Sons thy Thoughts employ!
O, still, protect them with a Parent's Care!
Indulgent, listen to our fervent Prayer!
Still, let thy Alma's Sons thy Thoughts employ!
O, still, protect them with a Parent's Care!
Teach them to love Mankind, and worship God!
Curb the wild Sallies of impetuous Youth!
Teach them to tread the Paths that thou hast trod,
And share those Blessings that now crown thy Truth!
Curb the wild Sallies of impetuous Youth!
Teach them to tread the Paths that thou hast trod,
And share those Blessings that now crown thy Truth!
And, lo! around the pensive Mourners stand;
Warm from the Heart, th'unbidden Sorrows flow;
In dumb Distress, each lifts his trembling Hand,
With Looks that speak unutterable Woe.
Warm from the Heart, th'unbidden Sorrows flow;
In dumb Distress, each lifts his trembling Hand,
With Looks that speak unutterable Woe.
What, though no Poet's Pen, no Sculptor's Art,
Adorns the Grave where thy lov'd Relics lie,
A Sigh shall burst from every feeling Heart;
A Tear shall fall from every honest Eye:
Adorns the Grave where thy lov'd Relics lie,
A Sigh shall burst from every feeling Heart;
A Tear shall fall from every honest Eye:
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And, though no Statues weep upon thy Tomb,
No storied Pillars labour with thy Fame,
Green, even in Age, thy Memory shall bloom,
When Pillars rise the Monuments of Shame.
No storied Pillars labour with thy Fame,
Green, even in Age, thy Memory shall bloom,
When Pillars rise the Monuments of Shame.
| The Shamrock | |