The Harp of Erin Containing the Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Dermody. In Two Volumes |
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MY OWN EPITAPH. |
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 | The Harp of Erin |  |
228
MY OWN EPITAPH.
Guiltless he met grim Death, and sporting;
The farce is finish'd, drop the curtain;
The bubble's burst, the whim is ended,
The rattle either lost or mended.
The farce is finish'd, drop the curtain;
The bubble's burst, the whim is ended,
The rattle either lost or mended.
Here Dermody, oddest of odd
compositions;
By Virtue and Vice, two contending physicians,
Most strangely work'd up; who of each wore the fetter;
Just loos'd from this world, lies in hopes of a better:
If no blessing ensue he can't suffer a curse;
As Fortune and Fate could not find out a worse.
All formal rule slighting of plain mortals above;
The pole-star of friendship, the comet of love;
Though sadly distrest, a vile squand'rer of pelf,
For others he felt what he felt not for self.
Most injur'd by folks whom he most wish'd to please;
To preferment no foe, but a friend to his ease;
Unnotic'd for talents he had, and forgot,
But most famously notic'd for faults he had not;
Though meek as a lamb, deem'd the lion of satire;
The madman of rage and the fool of good-nature;
Whenever to praise he sometimes condescended,
They squeez'd out sly rubs which were never intended:
No deist, no drunkard, no rake at a gypsy;
Yet often both swearing, and courting, and tipsy.
As an author, conceited when once he began;
Facetious, and social, and free, as a man:
As a man, did I say? when death shifted the scene,
A giant of genius, he was not fifteen.
Him whom living you nourish'd with ink and with bays,
To others the profit, to him the mere praise,
Sage critics and cavilers, take it in head
To burden with praise and with profit when dead;
Oh! now that you fear nor his smiles nor his lashes,
Be candid for once, and disturb not his ashes.
By Virtue and Vice, two contending physicians,
Most strangely work'd up; who of each wore the fetter;
Just loos'd from this world, lies in hopes of a better:
If no blessing ensue he can't suffer a curse;
As Fortune and Fate could not find out a worse.
All formal rule slighting of plain mortals above;
The pole-star of friendship, the comet of love;
Though sadly distrest, a vile squand'rer of pelf,
For others he felt what he felt not for self.
Most injur'd by folks whom he most wish'd to please;
To preferment no foe, but a friend to his ease;
Unnotic'd for talents he had, and forgot,
But most famously notic'd for faults he had not;
229
The madman of rage and the fool of good-nature;
Whenever to praise he sometimes condescended,
They squeez'd out sly rubs which were never intended:
No deist, no drunkard, no rake at a gypsy;
Yet often both swearing, and courting, and tipsy.
As an author, conceited when once he began;
Facetious, and social, and free, as a man:
As a man, did I say? when death shifted the scene,
A giant of genius, he was not fifteen.
Him whom living you nourish'd with ink and with bays,
To others the profit, to him the mere praise,
Sage critics and cavilers, take it in head
To burden with praise and with profit when dead;
Oh! now that you fear nor his smiles nor his lashes,
Be candid for once, and disturb not his ashes.
| The Harp of Erin | |