ELEGY III. On the untimely death of a certain learned acquaintance.
If proud Pygmalion quit his cumbrous frame,
Funereal pomp the scanty tear supplies;
Whilst heralds loud with venal voice proclaim,
Lo! here the brave and the puissant lies.
When humbler Alcon leaves his drooping friends,
Pageant nor plume distinguish Alcon's bier;
The faithful muse with votive song attends,
And blots the mournful numbers with a tear.
He little knew the sly penurious art;
That odious art which fortune's fav'rites know;
Form'd to bestow, he felt the warmest heart,
But envious fate forbade him to bestow.
He little knew to ward the secret wound;
He little knew that mortals could ensnare;
Virtue he knew; the noblest joy he found,
To sing her glories, and to paint her fair!
Ill was he skill'd to guide his wand'ring sheep;
And unforeseen disaster thin'd his fold;
Yet, at another's loss, the swain would weep;
And, for his friend, his very crook were sold.
Ye sons of wealth! protect the muse's train;
From winds protect them, and with food supply;
Ah! helpless they, toward the threaten'd pain!
The meagre famine, and the wintry sky?
He lov'd a nymph: amidst his slender store,
He dar'd to love; and Cynthia was his theme;
He breath'd his plaints along the rocky shore,
They only echo'd o'er the winding stream.
His nymph was fair! the sweetest bud that blows,
Revives less lovely from the recent show'r;
So Philomel enamour'd eyes the rose;
Sweet bird! enamour'd of the sweetest flow'r!
He lov'd the muse; she taught him to complain;
He saw his tim'rous loves on her depend;
He lov'd the muse, altho' she taught in vain;
He lov'd the muse, for she was virtue's friend.
She guides the foot that treads on Parian floors;
She wins the ear when formal pleas are vain;
She tempts patricians from the fatal doors
Of vice's brothel, forth to virtue's fane.
He wish'd for wealth, for much he wish'd to give;
He griev'd that virtue might not wealth obtain:
Piteous of woes, and hopeless to relieve,
The pensive prospect sadden'd all his strain.
I saw him faint! I saw him sink to rest!
Like one ordain'd to swell the vulgar throng;
As tho' the virtues had not warm'd his breast,
As tho' the muses not inspir'd his tongue.
I saw his bier ignobly cross the plain;
Saw peasant hands the pious rite supply:
The generous rustics mourn'd the friendly swain,
But pow'r and wealth's unvarying cheek was dry!
Such Alcon fell; in meagre want forlorn!
Where were ye then ye powerful patrons, where?
Wou'd ye the purple shou'd your limbs adorn,
Go wash the conscious blemish with a tear.
