A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes

Amid these mould'ring walls, this marble round,
Where slept the Heroes of the Julian name,
Say, shall we linger still in thought profound,
And meditate the mournful paths to fame?

What tho' no cypress shades, in funeral rows,
No sculptur'd urns, the last records of Fate,
O'er the shrunk terrace wave their baleful boughs,
Or breathe in storied emblems of the great;

Yet not with heedless eye will we survey
The scene tho' chang'd, nor negligently tread;
These variegated walks, however gay,
Were once the silent mansions of the dead.

In every shrub, in every flow'ret's bloom
That paints with different hues yon smiling plain,
Some Hero's ashes issue from the tomb,
And live a vegetative life again.

For matter dies not, as the Sages say,
But shifts to other forms the pliant mass,
When the free spirit quits its cumb'rous clay,
And sees, beneath, the rolling Planets pass.

Perhaps, my Villiers, for I sing to Thee,
Perhaps, unknowing of the bloom it gives,
In yon fair scyon of Apollo's tree
The sacred dust of young Marcellus lives.

Pluck not the leaf—'twere sacrilege to wound
Th'ideal memory of so sweet a shade;
In these sad seats an early grave he found,
And the first rites to gloomy Dis convey'd.

Witness thou Field of Mars, that oft hadst known
His youthful triumphs in the mimic war,
Thou heardst the heart-felt universal groan
When o'er thy bosom roll'd the funeral car.

Witness thou Tuscan stream, where oft he glow'd
In sportive strugglings with th'opposing wave,
Fast by the recent tomb thy waters flow'd
While wept the wise, the virtuous, and the brave.

O lost too soon!—yet why lament a fate
By thousands envied, and by Heaven approv'd.
Rare is the boon to those of longer date
To live, to die, admir'd, esteem'd, belov'd.

Weak are our judgments, and our passions warm,
And slowly dawns the radiant morn of truth,
Our expectations hastily we form,
And much we pardon to ingenuous youth.

Too oft we satiate on th'applause we pay
To rising Merit, and resume the Crown;
Full many a blooming genius, snatch'd away,
Has fallen lamented who had liv'd unknown.

For hard the task, O Villiers, to sustain
Th'important burthen of an early fame;
Each added day some added worth to gain,
Prevent each wish, and answer every claim.

Be thou Marcellus, with a length of days!
But O remember, whatsoe'er thou art,
The most exalted breath of human praise
To please indeed must echo from the heart.

Tho' thou be brave, be virtuous, and be wise,
By all, like him, admir'd, esteem'd, belov'd,
'Tis from within alone true Fame can rise,
The only happy, is the Self-approv'd.

It is now a garden belonging to Marchese di Corré.

He is said to be the first person buried in this monument.

Quantus ille virum magnum Mavortis ad urbem
Campus aget gemitus!

------ Vel quæ, Tyberine, videbis
Funera, cum tumulum præterlabere recentem.

Virg.

University of Virginia Library

ELEGY II. On the Mausoleum of AUGUSTUS.

To the Right Honourable George Bussy Villiers, Viscount Villiers. Written at Rome, 1756.