The Works, In Verse and Prose, of Leonard Welsted ... Now First Collected. With Historical Notes, And Biographical Memoirs of the Author, by John Nichols |
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EPISTLE to Mr. WELSTED,
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 | The Works, In Verse and Prose, of Leonard Welsted |  |
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EPISTLE to Mr. WELSTED,
On the Death of his only Daughter, 1726.
By Mr. COOKE.
While on the winding banks of Thames I rove,
Or chuse, for silence more profound, the grove;
Or in the flowery vale enamour'd stray,
Where Innocence and Truth direct the way;
While charm'd sublimely by the various scene,
The Muse propitious, and the mind serene;
What, to a mortal so divinely bless'd,
Can strike so deeply as a friend distress'd!
Or chuse, for silence more profound, the grove;
Or in the flowery vale enamour'd stray,
Where Innocence and Truth direct the way;
While charm'd sublimely by the various scene,
The Muse propitious, and the mind serene;
What, to a mortal so divinely bless'd,
Can strike so deeply as a friend distress'd!
Ev'n now, dejected, I thy lot deplore;
And the gay prospect can delight no more.
In vain to me the gilded landskips rise,
While the tears fall from my Horatio's eyes.
Well is my soul for friendship form'd, or love;
In concert to my friend my passions move.
Ev'n now the sovereign balm, that never fail'd,
That always o'er the heavy heart prevail'd,
That ever charm'd me in the mournful hour,
Ev'n thy own lays, my friend, have lost their power.
Oh! how I long to let our sorrows flow,
And mingle in the tender strife of woe!
And the gay prospect can delight no more.
In vain to me the gilded landskips rise,
While the tears fall from my Horatio's eyes.
Well is my soul for friendship form'd, or love;
In concert to my friend my passions move.
Ev'n now the sovereign balm, that never fail'd,
That always o'er the heavy heart prevail'd,
That ever charm'd me in the mournful hour,
Ev'n thy own lays, my friend, have lost their power.
Oh! how I long to let our sorrows flow,
And mingle in the tender strife of woe!
'Tis done,—and lo! the debt of nature's paid:
Soft lie the dust, and happy rest the maid!
And now the last, the pious, tear is shed,
The unavailing tribute to the dead;
No longer let thy faithful friends complain:
See, they demand thee to themselves again.
Petronius, now, allures thy soul to ease,
A happy man! by nature form'd to please:
Whose virtues well may call Horatio friend;
Whom love and mirth-dispelling care attend;
In him, to full perfection met, we see
All that the wise, or gay, can wish to be.
In the sad hour from him I find relief,
With him forget that I have cause for grief.
Haste to enjoy the hours I've heard you prize,
Those hours known only to the good and wise;
To sacred friendship be thy days assign'd,
Be to thyself, and thy associates, kind.
Or if thy soul, all-resolute in woe,
Still bids the wakeful eye of sorrow flow;
Make reason, the great guide of life, thine aid:
Say, is the frenzy grateful to the maid?
Or, could the virgin-shade perceive thee mourn,
Would she, embody'd, to thy arms return?
Whatever cause, my friend, concludes her date,
The course of nature, or the work of fate,
Let this the burden of thy heart relieve,
'Tis weakness or impiety to grieve.
What though her charms might savage rage compose,
And vye in sweetness with the Syrian rose;
What though her mind beseem'd her angel's face,
Where every virtue met, and every grace;
Yet think, my friend, the heavy-falling shower,
Without distinction, lays the loveliest flower.
Trace every age, in every age you find
A thousand weeping fathers left behind;
The common lot of all is fall'n to thee,
What was, what is, and what shall always be.
To dust reduc'd shall thy Zelinda lye;
And know, thyself, thy dearer self, shall die.
Know this, and stop the fountain of thine eyes;
Excess of sorrow ill becomes the wise.
Soft lie the dust, and happy rest the maid!
And now the last, the pious, tear is shed,
The unavailing tribute to the dead;
208
See, they demand thee to themselves again.
Petronius, now, allures thy soul to ease,
A happy man! by nature form'd to please:
Whose virtues well may call Horatio friend;
Whom love and mirth-dispelling care attend;
In him, to full perfection met, we see
All that the wise, or gay, can wish to be.
In the sad hour from him I find relief,
With him forget that I have cause for grief.
Haste to enjoy the hours I've heard you prize,
Those hours known only to the good and wise;
To sacred friendship be thy days assign'd,
Be to thyself, and thy associates, kind.
Or if thy soul, all-resolute in woe,
Still bids the wakeful eye of sorrow flow;
Make reason, the great guide of life, thine aid:
Say, is the frenzy grateful to the maid?
Or, could the virgin-shade perceive thee mourn,
Would she, embody'd, to thy arms return?
Whatever cause, my friend, concludes her date,
The course of nature, or the work of fate,
Let this the burden of thy heart relieve,
'Tis weakness or impiety to grieve.
What though her charms might savage rage compose,
And vye in sweetness with the Syrian rose;
What though her mind beseem'd her angel's face,
Where every virtue met, and every grace;
Yet think, my friend, the heavy-falling shower,
Without distinction, lays the loveliest flower.
Trace every age, in every age you find
A thousand weeping fathers left behind;
The common lot of all is fall'n to thee,
What was, what is, and what shall always be.
To dust reduc'd shall thy Zelinda lye;
And know, thyself, thy dearer self, shall die.
Know this, and stop the fountain of thine eyes;
Excess of sorrow ill becomes the wise.
| The Works, In Verse and Prose, of Leonard Welsted | |