University of Virginia Library

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF THE REVEREND JONATHAN MAYHEW, D. D.

WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE JULY 9th, ANNO DOMINI, 1766.

ÆTATIS SUÆ 46.

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The Author of the following POEM, having composed it in the Intervals of Business, designing it till towards the Close for the private Inspection of a Friend—thinks it necessary to inform the Publick, that had he originally intended to publish it, he should have endeavoured that it might have appeared more seasonably, and more worthy the exalted Subject— such as it is, he hopes for a candid Reception of it, not having sufficient Leisure at present to introduce it into the World in a better Dress.

[1.]

Soft is my Pollio's Heart. I've mark'd the Tear
Drop after Drop succeed, a num'rous Train
To Woe's low Murmurs patient is thine Ear,
Thy Soul responsive to a Tale of Pain.

2.

How oft beneath this consecrated Shed
We've nam'd the Wise, the Good, of ev'ry Clime
With home-felt Rev'rence for the learned Dead,
Deplor'd thy Havock, fell Destroyer Time!

3.

Full, on our Parent-Isle our Eyes revert,
O'er her long List of Worthies breathe a Sigh;
Why shall Ambition seize this little Heart,
When Shakespear's, Milton's, Pope's and Dryden's die?

4.

What boots the Song, ah what avails the Meed!
To make Immortals, by the gen'rous Lay?
E'er long these Bodies to the Dust decreed,
Shall surely want the tender Tear we pay.

5.

Great is the Task, and glorious is the End,
When the chaste Muse in Virtue's Cause engage;
Tis her's to patronize, protect, defend,
And hold th' Exemplars to a distant Age.

6.

Deep into Times roll'd by—to dart her Ken,
At the Tribunal of her lordly Mind,
T'arraign the Conduct of the mightiest Men,
Acquit, or doom the Nimrod's of Mankind.

7.

To sift the Motive stript of wily glare,
And thro' each Cell the lurking Guilt pursue;
The Heart dissecting till the Bottom bare,
Betrays the Villain to the naked View.

8.

Here 'tis no Sacriledge to burst the Tomb,
Call up the Dead, and rake the rotten Core,
To search for genuine Virtue's sweet Perfume,
'Till the rank Carrion tempt her there no more:

9.

Awake ye Dead! Say is the Call severe?
Ye Worms, give up your vile and loathsome Prey,
Like the last Clarion to the guilty Ear,
The Ghosts shrink backward, and detest the Day.

10.

What have ye done? omnipotent in Rage
When awful Conscience sounds the dread Alarm,
Can ye one Virtue in your Cause engage?
The rifting Thunder of his Voice to charm,

11.

What have ye done to deck th' historic Lore,
To bribe Posterity, and snatch your Name,
When rigid Justice scanns your Conduct o'er,
From that avenging Demon, endless Shame?

12.

Nay, could ye bribe with Crowns, can M---s---d's Tongue,
Or M---n's murd'rous Arm which scourg'd Mankind,
Corrupt the Judgment, or emblazon Wrong,
Before that sacred Umpire, mighty Mind!

13.

Whence then this Lust to praise? that not a Knave,
Tho' Dupe to Folly, Meanness, Vice avow'd,
Can kennel with his Vermine in the Grave,
Or hide his leprous Carcase in the Shroud:

14.

Tho' not one Virtue, not one Spark of Worth,
No close Acquaintance with fair Wisdom sought,
In his long Roll of Follies since his Birth;
No gleam of Grace illum'd a single Thought!

15.

But some officious Bard, intent to twine,
A Wreath of Glory, licks him o'er with Care;
While stern Remembrance blasts the dark Design,
Still bids his Follies live, and damns him there.

16.

Commend the dead! I would not be severe,
E'en tho' th' imperfect Heart to Vice decline;
Sure human Frailties claim a feeling Tear,
If Virtue's genuine Ore, possess the Mine!

17.

This Candour bids—who errs without Design,
His Follies slumber as committed not,
The erring Heart is close allied to mine,
I ask of Charity—be such forgot.—

18.

Come then, thou honest Muse! tho' coy, sincere,
Nor foul Suspicion on thy Verse shall light,
Resolv'd in Truth, O make that Truth appear,
That Fear, nor Tenderness have dim'd thy Sight;

19.

Tho' all the Choir averse the Lay disown,
Be Truth's rough Canon reverently read;
Praise when deserv'd, out-lives the mould'ring Stone,
Entails Remembrance, and embalms the Dead:

20.

Spirit of Truth! discriminating Guide!
The humane Heart submits to thy Controul;
Thy Residence, if guiltless; far and wide,
Thou know'st th' ambiguous Warpings of the Soul;

21.

Those Mists of Passion which mislead, chastise,
Undazled, unseduced, assist my Care,
(Pomp's flitting Meteor quench beneath these Eyes,)
To speak of Men and Manners as they are:

22.

MAYHEW, this Verse be thine! as in some Wild,
Dark, devious and unknown; the tim'rous Swain,
Wanders irresolute, with Horrors thrill'd,
Now stops, Despairs, now Hopes, and walks again:

23.

Thus in Suspense my struggling Thot's contend,
O'er Mayhew's Praise, unfathomable Deep,
I view the Ocean on the Margin's End,
And clinging to the Verge, delay the Leap:

24.

But shall those Virtues, such a copious Theme,
A Theme so dazling, so divinely high;
Shall they be mention'd with a cold Esteem,
Or pass like common Things unheeded by?

25.

Forbid it awful Guardian! of the Dust
Of slumb'ring Virtue; Genius thou art he!
The Good, the Wise, the Virtuous, and the Just,
Demand the Stamp of Immortality:

26.

Mayhew! In thy fair Bow'r of Bliss enthron'd,
Bold in the Front of Angels rise erect,
Had'st thou one Fault unwept, or unatton'd?
Hadst thou one Virtue clouded with defect?

27.

Mayhew! stand forth from every Seraph there,
Claim Admiration from the few forgiven,
A mortal Being never rose more fair,
Nor shone more radiant midst the Files of Heav'n.

28.

Why need we mark that all-discerning Mind,
That shot thro' Science with a Light'nings Speed,
That left Tuition's gradual Streams behind,
And snatch'd Repletion at the Fountain Head?

29.

Why need we note that Dignity of Soul,
That 'stablish'd Reason's controverted Sway?
Thrice sacred Guide! we yield to thy Controul,
Nor fling the Honours of Mankind away:

30.

Hail Ray celestial! rescued from the Yoke,
Of Hood-wink'd Zealots, we assert thy Claim;
Out purblind Folly! god-like Mayhew spoke,
And Reason, and Religion are the same:

31.

Why need we note his Honesty of Heart,
That every Sentiment with Freedom taught,
Fix'd in his Right of Judgment, scorn'd to part,
From native independency of Thoughts?

32.

His earliest Joy was Liberty, for this,
His Soul to Labours, Watchings, Prayers he gave,
Freedom was all his Ardor, all his Bliss,
His Heart turn'd Rebel at that Tho't, a Slave:

33.

Vain the Design, and fruitless the Essay,
Tho' Duty prompt us to pourtray his Mind,
The finish'd Blessing in a nobler Way.
Lives in his learned Labours deep inshrin'd:

34.

In vain their Waters, barrier Oceans spread,
To sever Kingdome. Years revolve in vain,
Mayhew! thy Virtues, thro' fair Volumes spread,
O'er Time, and Space, with gather'd Glories reign:

35.

But O ye happy, ye selected few!
Who to his social Heart had soft Access,
Has Science lost a Son, a Patron too?
What you have lost, I read in your Distress:

36.

True sterling Genius, like yon orient Sun,
A Blaze of Glory, to a Distance throws,
While private Virtues, in small Circles run,
Shed milder Influence, and a sweet Repose.

37.

Friends of the Dead! I ask each conscious Breast
That felt his Goodness, universal, free,
When pain'd with Tenderness, how oft you've guest
In silent Wonder?—“such must Angels be”.

38.

O'er his soft Features, kind Complacence smil'd,
And plaintive Sorrow, wrung his tender Heart,
His lenient Tongue, keen Anguish oft beguil'd,
He catch'd th' Infection, and allay'd the Smart:

39.

He nurs'd the Sons of Want, by his Command,
The Streams of copious Bounty hourly flew,
Till Death's stiff Palsy bound his clay-cold Hand,
Never was Mayhew backward to bestow:

40.

Where'er the Bods of Genius he survey'd,
With Parent-culture he enrich'd the Soil,
The Brow of wrinkled Care, with Smiles array'd,
Assists to Labour, and rewards the Toil:

41.

And thou once-envied, now compassion'd Spouse!
Whose streaming Eyes, a ceaseless Tribute shed,
While fond Reflection, still forbids Repose,
And bleeding Love still hovers o'er the Dead;

42.

Say shall th' Intruding Muse demand thine Ear,
Point to yon Shroud, and moralizing say?
“Suppress thy Sorrows, stop th' effusive Tear,
“Thy dear-lov'd Mayhew beckons thee away:

43.

That awful Stroke which widow'd thee of Joy.
Too soon thy Virtues shall to Bliss translate,
Some future Bard, shall all his Powers employ,
To paint thy Beauties, and lament thy Fate:

44.

Till then thine Offspring claim thy fostering Care,
Dear lovely Pledges of a mutual Flame,
Those infant Cherubs to thy Virtues rear,
And crown the Blessing, with their Father's Fame:

45.

While flor'd Remembrance pains the grateful Heart,
In speechless Agony, see yonder Train!
Unhappy Flock! we share a tender Part,
Adopt the Pang, and weep him o'er again:

46.

Yes he was good, indeed divinely good,
The Zest of Grace enrich'd his pregnant Mind,
O'er the inferiour World, the Victor stood,
And trampled on the Idols of Mankind:

47.

Blest Saint! we wonder, and at once despair,
Such an Assemblage of Desert to see,
Such glorious Talents are indeed but rare,
Still rarer, such exalted Piety;

48.

Methinks I see him with his beaming Face,
Pour in some Seraph's Ear his wondrous Tale,
Of mighty Power he speaks, redeeming Grace,
While Love by turns, and rev'rent Awe prevail;

49.

Around attent, illustrious Spirits Throng,
Catch from his Lips, the well-instructed Lore,
Then shout, such Dictates from a mortal Tongue,
Such Strength of Mind, they never knew before;

50.

Then clasp the heav'nly Stranger, and with Joy,
Wooe his Acquaintance, his Arrival bless,
All emulous to please, their Harps employ,
To teach the rapt'rous Song, with glad Success.