Juvenilia or, A collection of poems. Written between the ages of twelve and seventeen, by J. H. L. Hunt ... Fourth Edition |
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ELEGIES.
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 | Juvenilia |  |
91
ELEGIES.
93
ELEGY.
WRITTEN IN POETs' CORNER, WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
In this cold solitude, this awful shade,
Where sleeps the lyre of many a tuneful breath,
The ghastly shroud and dust-disturbing spade,
Invite the shudd'ring thought to Gloom and Death.
Where sleeps the lyre of many a tuneful breath,
The ghastly shroud and dust-disturbing spade,
Invite the shudd'ring thought to Gloom and Death.
Yet, while my careful feet slow pace along
O'er the dumb tales of learning and of fame,
Remembrance fond recalls the Poet's song,
And Admiration points the chisell'd name.
O'er the dumb tales of learning and of fame,
Remembrance fond recalls the Poet's song,
And Admiration points the chisell'd name.
To boast the wonder of attentive crouds,
And wrap the soul in ecstasied applause,
To reach Futurity, that spurns the clouds,
And unlock Harmony's enchanting laws;
And wrap the soul in ecstasied applause,
To reach Futurity, that spurns the clouds,
And unlock Harmony's enchanting laws;
94
For this the Poet rolls his phrenzied eye,
And wakens Rapture with his fairy hand;
For this he warbles transport to the sky,
And pours enchantment o'er a thrilling land!
And wakens Rapture with his fairy hand;
For this he warbles transport to the sky,
And pours enchantment o'er a thrilling land!
Live not, where Shakespeare lays his awful dust,
The marble records of immortal fame?
Weeps not the Muse o'er Rowe's beloved bust?
And speaks not Truth in Gay's untitled name!
The marble records of immortal fame?
Weeps not the Muse o'er Rowe's beloved bust?
And speaks not Truth in Gay's untitled name!
Who boasts of Kings when bending o'er the shade,
Where lies the harp sublime of free-born Gray?
Who talks of pomp, or who of proud parade,
Where modest Thomson drops his spotless lay?
Where lies the harp sublime of free-born Gray?
Who talks of pomp, or who of proud parade,
Where modest Thomson drops his spotless lay?
If courts are nobler than the Muse divine,
Princes and lords had long usurp'd the praise;
Some laurell'd Wilmot wanton'd but to shine,
Some Henry hoarded for immortal bays.
Princes and lords had long usurp'd the praise;
Some laurell'd Wilmot wanton'd but to shine,
Some Henry hoarded for immortal bays.
Yet them no more shall Admiration high
Lift from the turf that triumphs o'er their clay;
For them no tear stand quiv'ring in the eye,
For them no bosom sigh its plaintive lay!
Lift from the turf that triumphs o'er their clay;
For them no tear stand quiv'ring in the eye,
For them no bosom sigh its plaintive lay!
Unwept, unpitied, drooping to their doom,
They creep to death, nor leave a trace behind;
No plaintive breath lamenting o'er the tomb,
But yon cold grass that whistles to the wind!
They creep to death, nor leave a trace behind;
No plaintive breath lamenting o'er the tomb,
But yon cold grass that whistles to the wind!
95
Ye georgeous worms, that glitter in in the sun,
Ye worms of wealth, and vanity, and sway;
Say, have ye ought of praise, of glory won,
That thus ye flaunt along your gaudy way?
Ye worms of wealth, and vanity, and sway;
Say, have ye ought of praise, of glory won,
That thus ye flaunt along your gaudy way?
'Tis not the splendor of the cherish'd hoard,
Pomp's carv'd atchievements, or the robe of pow'r;
'Tis not the purple of a nation's lord
Can claim Futurity's emblazon'd hour!
Pomp's carv'd atchievements, or the robe of pow'r;
'Tis not the purple of a nation's lord
Can claim Futurity's emblazon'd hour!
Foul Av'rice watches but to gain a grave,
And haughty Pride must bow to shrinking age;
Pow'r has not learnt the storms of death to brave,
And Grandeur crumbles from her gorgeous stage!
And haughty Pride must bow to shrinking age;
Pow'r has not learnt the storms of death to brave,
And Grandeur crumbles from her gorgeous stage!
The heart that loves, that is the friend of all,
And meek Humility's unlordly breast,
These are the beams that glitter o'er the pall,
And sink resplendent, like the Sun, to rest!
And meek Humility's unlordly breast,
These are the beams that glitter o'er the pall,
And sink resplendent, like the Sun, to rest!
And, ah, if e'er on them the Muse's eye
Shed the bright influence of her heav'nly fire;
Applause shall live for ever where they lie,
And one eternal triumph be their lyre!
Shed the bright influence of her heav'nly fire;
Applause shall live for ever where they lie,
And one eternal triumph be their lyre!
97
[Lost, sainted son of virtue and of worth]
Lost, sainted son of virtue and of worth,
And hast thou breath'd thy gentle soul away?
Must Heav'n so soon demand thee from this earth?
So soon demand thee to eternal day?
And hast thou breath'd thy gentle soul away?
Must Heav'n so soon demand thee from this earth?
So soon demand thee to eternal day?
O had it still, in pity to us all,
Breath'd lively health into thy placid breast;
Vice had not ever triumph'd in our fall,
Or with her hated scorpions thorn'd our rest!
Breath'd lively health into thy placid breast;
Vice had not ever triumph'd in our fall,
Or with her hated scorpions thorn'd our rest!
But man's low dwelling was unworthy thee;
And Heav'n perceiv'd, and op'd its arms above:
There shall thine eyes their kindred sweetness see,
And there thy breast its kindred virtues love.
And Heav'n perceiv'd, and op'd its arms above:
There shall thine eyes their kindred sweetness see,
And there thy breast its kindred virtues love.
And though thy feet so soft so humbly trod
Along life's noiseless, solitary vale;
Thy shade shall walk exalted by its God,
Where courts and kings have panted but to kneel.
Along life's noiseless, solitary vale;
Thy shade shall walk exalted by its God,
Where courts and kings have panted but to kneel.
Say, can thy death by aught be duly wept,
The sculptur'd tomb with worthy tears be dew'd?
Shall sadd'ning vigils o'er thy hearse be kept,
And melting Sorrow at thy grave be woo'd?
The sculptur'd tomb with worthy tears be dew'd?
Shall sadd'ning vigils o'er thy hearse be kept,
And melting Sorrow at thy grave be woo'd?
98
Sad Wit, forgetful of his wonted smile,
The sigh unusual o'er thy turf shall pour;
Philosophy be taught to weep awhile,
And ev'ry Muse a sep'rate loss deplore!
The sigh unusual o'er thy turf shall pour;
Philosophy be taught to weep awhile,
And ev'ry Muse a sep'rate loss deplore!
Farewell meek Moralist! blest Bard, adieu!
And Life, lamented by a widow'd age!
That Life, soon snatching from our raptur'd view
The gentle annals of its spotless page!
And Life, lamented by a widow'd age!
That Life, soon snatching from our raptur'd view
The gentle annals of its spotless page!
99
[Of aspect ruthless as the frown of Fate]
Of aspect ruthless as the frown of Fate,Form'd to be hated, as himself could hate;
Of soul too impious to be curs'd in song,
Dark as that eye of Death he fed so long;
Of passions fir'd by every fiend that fell,
The sword of Slaughter in the hand of Hell;
He kiss'd the steel a country's blood had stain'd,
And died that Dæmon that he liv'd and reign'd.
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