University of Virginia Library

AN ELEGY.

ON THE DEATH OF Mrs. JANE WILCOCKS.

From the bright glories of celestial day,
Where hosts angelic, rang'd in vast array,
Salute thy soul, and with seraphic breath
Calm the rude horrors of the recent death;
Blest shade look down, my mournful accents hear,
Oh! see me shed the the tender parting tear!
Too soon, alas! the best of friends I mourn;
To soon with cypress deck thy silent urn;
Too soon my muse employs her softest lays,
To paint my grief, and to attempt thy praise.
Oh! warm my bosom whilst thy worth I sing;
Oh! teach my hand to touch the plaintive string.
Mournful the subject, mournful be my song,
And let soft sorrows each sad line prolong;
All joy, all comfort, from my soul is fled,
Since thou art number'd with the sleeping dead.
By moon light oft I lonely seek the plain,
Sooth my distress, and fondly nurse my pain;
There muse on scenes I've past with thee before,
And weep to think those scenes can be no more.
How oft in pleas'd attention have I hung,
While wisdom roll'd harmonious from thy tongue!
In precepts form'd to guide my heedless youth,
Thro' the bright paths of ever radiant truth.
Such were the virtues that adorn'd thy breast,
To know thee well, was to esteem thee best:
Heav'n to the sweetness of thy sex had join'd,
And active spirit, a heroic mind;
A woman soft, as far as softness can,
In noble resolution more than man.
Religion pure thy spotless bosom fir'd,
And all thy actions, all thy thoughts inspired:
And yet thy soul would ever turn aside
With just disdain from ostentatious pride;
Whatever fortune Heav'n design'd, 'twas thine,
A bright example in that sphere to shine.
'Twas thine to grace each varying state of life,
The tend'rest mother, and the fondest wife;
Faithful in friendship, true to ev'ry trust,
And to thy God, thyself, and neighbour just;
As far, at least, as mortal powers can go,
For strict perfection dwells not here below.
Long hadst thou liv'd to bless thy weeping friends,
Long hadst thou liv'd for many a glorious end.
If Pollio's ghost had not forbid thy stay;
His beck'ng ghost invited thee away.
Pollio the wise, the generous, and the young,
Whose early fate the sorrowing muse hath sung.
What tho' thy body moulders into dust,
Thy spirit joins him mid th' encircling just.
E'en now I see thee in those heav'nly plains,
Where perfect bliss, and peace eternal reigns;
Where pain and sorrow can no more annoy,
But thy soul drinks of never ending joy:
Where all the bitterness of grief is o'er,
And death's cold pangs shall agonize no more:
There shalt thou listen to the heav'nly sound
Of cherubim and seraph chaunting round;
In songs celestial thou shalt there adore,
Him that shall last when time shall be no more.