Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

A bard, whom no contending Party sways,
Who never Worth, by Wealth, or Title, weighs,
Untaught to flatter, and unbrib'd by Gain,
To you, my Lord, directs his doleful Strain:

339

A Strain, that makes a Kingdom's Sorrow known,
Inspir'd by generous Suffering, like your own.

Uncommon Losses claim uncommon Woe,
Which vulgar Numbers cannot justly show.
A Patriot's Death, and such a Patriot too,
When wanted most, and Patriots are so few,
Demands our Tears; and, on the hallow'd Hearse,
A Hill, or Pope, shou'd strow immortal Verse.
They, powerful Genii! equal to the Theme,
Cou'd sing his Soul, and weep themselves to Fame.
I, but a nameless Novice! humbly pay
My zealous Duty to distinguish'd Clay:
Happy, if I can Nature's Dictates trace,
Without the servile Aids of common Place.
Art looks affected in our mournful Songs,
And borrow'd Pomp a pious Offering wrongs.

340

But what, my Lord, can Art and Nature do,
To match the Sorrow, that has seiz'd on you?
A Sorrow, that is shar'd by all the Good,
Howe'er disjoin'd by different Rights of Blood!
Honour and Virtue feel your weighty Woe,
And reel beneath the all-afflicting Blow.
What Lover of his Country can forbear,
In spite of Faction, to be mourner here?
Dalrymple, scorning specious Tricks of Art,
Rever'd his Country, with an honest Heart.
Unwearied, wou'd his generous Soul essay,
To help benighted Merit into Day.
He judg'd no Task, within his Province, hard;
And reap'd, in Goodness, its refin'd Reward.
How frank! how kind! how generous! how just!
His Conduct was?—how faithful to his Trust?

341

How learn'd in Laws? how eloquent? how wise?
Who lives, yet knows not, under British Skies?
O, where shall sacred, social Virtues find
Their Charms united, in another Mind?
When shall we one, so well accomplish'd, see
So humble, modest, complaisant, and free.
Together all his various Merits throw,
And let Mankind his perfect Equal show.

How was his Exit to his Life ally'd?
“I go, my Friends (and, as he said, he dy'd)
“Take my best Wishes, and believe my Love
“Shall never lessen, at the Courts above.
“There, if my Interest for you can avail,
“My Nature will not let my Labours fail.

O happy Shade! O Realms of Glory gone!
Enjoy the Rest your Course of Virtue won.

342

No civil Discord, no inglorious Art,
Shall ever there molest your ravish'd Heart.
Secure your Treasure, and confirm'd your Claim,
Immortal be your Happiness and Fame:
While we, condemn'd to drudge it here below,
By Want of You, your Value clearly know.

What art thou, Life, whose longer Stay we court?
Since Man, at best, is fickle Fortune's Sport.
Why should we wish a larger Stock of Breath?
Since Nature's Self implores Relief from Death.
Is it not better, to elude, by Flight,
The Ills to come, conceal'd from humane Sight?
Fate wisely treasures a Reserve of Woe
For those, who further, than their Line, wou'd go.
Dalrymple, like a wise, instructed, Guest,
Enjoy'd his Portion, and forsook the Feast.

343

When Man has got his Share of worldly Sweets,
Too soon he cannot leave unsavoury Meats.
But we, weak Mortals! by our Passions sway'd,
Mourn o'er the Dead, and are of Death afraid.
Begging for Life, we sue for more Decay,
And dread to lose what daily dies away.
Deluded Creatures! why so griev'd, to see
Our Friends, from sad Confinement here, set free?
When Death comes calm, by gentle Nature led,
Shou'd we not, joyful, croud around the Bed,
And wonder more, no envious Fate destroy'd
The lov'd, the loving, Objects, in their Pride?
Surprizing Strokes may seem, perhaps, severe—
So dy'd Belhaven, the Young, the Brave, the Dear:
Belhaven, the Grief, who lately was the Grace,
Of all his noble, now dejected, Race!

344

For ever lost—but ever to remain
Alive in Hearts, and in the Poet's Strain.
He sunk untimely, as the beauteous Rose
Is dash'd to Pieces, when a Tempest grows.
Not so Dalrymple, who serenely fell,
And, tir'd with Life, bid this vain World farewell.
He drop'd, like Autumn-fruit, that mellow'd long,
Prepar'd, to join the Just, cogenial, Throng.

Yet suits it well Mortality to mourn,
For our own Loss, and strow the Patriot's Urn.
Nor is it Rudeness for the friendly Muse,
To moralize Affliction into Use.
Alike concerns it great, and small, to scan
The frail Estate, and future Hope, of Man.
Noble and Base are destin'd both to die.
In vain we wou'd impartial Justice fly.

345

No Pray'r, no Bribe, no Shew of Life, can charm
The whirling Year, and Death's tremendous Arm.

Permit, my Lord, Imagination's Flight,
And view, with me, the dreary Shades of Night.
Peruse the Dust, so lately like our own,
As much alive, and worthy fair Renown.
Observe how once-distinguish'd Names are join'd!
Where, now, is Grandeur? where a wond'rous Mind?
Which is the Noble? who shou'd be rever'd?
What Villain spurn'd at? and what Hero fear'd?
How low, proud Conquerors, are your Trophies laid?
How equal, now, are Kings and Subjects made?
Diogenes, thy Treasure is not scant:
What more does mighty Alexander want?
Where are thy Pinions, thou, who, late, did'st fly
From Orb to Orb? an Inmate of the Sky!

346

Do Roses flourish on Hellena's Breast?
Democritus, appears the Grave a Jest?
Hear'st thou, O Maro, when we read thy Lays,
Do Homer's Atoms listen to his Praise?
Frail Life! how soon thy shewy Pride is past!
Too cruel Death! that makes such dreadful Waste!

Be taught, my Soul, with an assiduous Strife,
To manage well th' important Hours of Life.
With solemn Awe, the Ways of Truth revere,
And all thou do'st, by Wisdom's Dictates, steer.
So shall not Death, with an unfriendly Frown,
Inglorious, throw thy ruin'd Cottage down:
But, smiling, lead thee thro' the dubious Way,
And leave thee raptur'd in immortal Day.
So sings the Muse, by pious Fancy warm'd;
But, ah! how weakly is the Conduct arm'd?

347

We think, resolve, and make Essays to live;
Yet faster in the devious Courses drive.
Reason exerts her pure, celestial, Rays,
To guide our Steps thro' Errors weary Maze:
But upstart Passions mount her rightful Throne,
And blindly push our vanquish'd Judgment on.
Hence we, perversely, wander, in the Night,
Uncertain, when the Road, we take, is right.

O Nature! why so indolent in Good?
Too tempting Ills! by Passions fast pursu'd.
Happy the Man, most happy in the End!
To others useful, to himself a Friend,
Who, steel'd by Virtue, baffles ev'ry Vice,
And rates his Honour, at the highest Price:
In all Events of Fortune, stands serene,
Unshock'd by Danger, and unsowr'd by Spleen;

348

Views Want, Disease, and Death, without Dismay,
Well pleas'd, each Eve, he has not lost the Day.
Him no vain Hopes attract, no Fears oppress,
He's great in Loss, and humble in Success:
Amidst the Snares of Courts, is ne'er enthral'd,
Nor, by Reflection, in his Pleasures pall'd:
Grey in Experience, he despises Guile,
Knows a false Cringe, and undermining Smile:
By others' Ruin, certain Safety gains,
And stands, prepar'd, to shift the transient Scenes:
Such was Dalrymple, (ever be his Name
Mourn'd by the Muse, and fair in future Fame)
And such, my Lord, your Character confess'd,
Is lov'd by all, of all your Self the best.

Did you not too, too modestly refuse
The just Encomiums of the wondering Muse;

349

And cou'd I, equal to the glorious Theme,
By praising you, deserve a deathless Name;
No British Patriot sooner wou'd I sing,
Nor, from feign'd Worth, my Inspiration bring.
Your proper Merit shou'd adorn my Verse,
And Envy own the Virtues I rehearse.
But Souls, like Stair, by some unlucky Fate,
Receive the Honours, they deserve, too late.
A thousand Years, successive, were expir'd,
Ere Maro's Muse Æneas' Acts inspir'd:
And Trojan Tow'rs, in Ashes, long had lain,
Ere Homer's Verse immortaliz'd the Slain.

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NB. This Poem shou'd have follow'd immediately after the Poetical Dream.