 | A Collection of Original Poems |  |
155
On the Death of Dr. B***ll**ie, Physician to the English Army in Flanders;
Who died at Ghent, December 1743.
Hunc saltem accumulem donis, et fungar inani
Munere.
Virg.
Munere.
Virg.
O thou best skill'd my ev'ry grief t'assuage,
Frail, flatt'ring hope of my declining age!
Scarce had the Muse, who kindled at thy name,
Clapp'd her glad wings, exulting in thy fame,
Ere pensive, chearless, in complaining verse,
She pays her last sad tribute o'er thy herse.
Frail, flatt'ring hope of my declining age!
Scarce had the Muse, who kindled at thy name,
Clapp'd her glad wings, exulting in thy fame,
Ere pensive, chearless, in complaining verse,
She pays her last sad tribute o'er thy herse.
Ah! why to thee was ev'ry virtue giv'n?
Or why those virtues doom'd the scourge of heav'n?
Severely kind—indulgent to excess—
Deepest to wound, when most it seem'd to bless—
Gilding thy mid-day sun with fairest light,
To add new horrors to the brown of night—
Ah! never more shall worth like thine inspire
My feeble voice, and my neglected lyre!
Yet, doom'd to weep thy short, but shining span,
Still shall the Muse, nor more her fondness can,
Revere an angel—whom she lov'd, a man.
Or why those virtues doom'd the scourge of heav'n?
Severely kind—indulgent to excess—
Deepest to wound, when most it seem'd to bless—
Gilding thy mid-day sun with fairest light,
To add new horrors to the brown of night—
156
My feeble voice, and my neglected lyre!
Yet, doom'd to weep thy short, but shining span,
Still shall the Muse, nor more her fondness can,
Revere an angel—whom she lov'd, a man.
| A Collection of Original Poems | |