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 | Miscellanies (1785) |  |
I.
And oh (he cried with frantic grief)Who now shall bring relief,
Or where the cordial shall I find,
To soothe a parent's mind,
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Well may ye hang the head,
And press your grassy bed,
Ye conscious forests, and ye waving groves,
For never shall ye see your master more:
To other scenes the ætherial spirit roves,
And tir'd of Hagley, seeks a fairer shore.
II.
The Muses listen'd to his polish'd strain,And every wondering swain,
With pride, came thronging to his rustic bower,
The Dryads own'd his power.
But when he wail'd his lovely Lucy dead,
And his melodious sorrow told,
The shepherds lean'd to hear,
The Silvans dropt a tear,
Then all in wild disorder fled.
'Rapt in the deepest shades recess,
They mourn'd their gentle Lord's distress,
And join'd his prayers for Lucy—but in vain.
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III.
And art thou gone, my venerable son,Who shar'd with Genius the exalted throne!
Pride of my age, and pillar of my care!—
Mute is thy tuneful voice—“O loss beyond repair.”
Ah Lyttellon, for thee,
The true tear long shall bathe this parent breast,
For there thy worth, and talents live imprest—
Engrav'd by Sympathy.
Oh! fall severely felt,
To make a parent melt,
The tender breast to tear;
And wake despair:
And scarce a child the mighty-grief to share!
IV.
How shall I paint the glories of his mind,Benevolent, and kind,
His reason strong, and elegantly clear,
To every virtue dear!
Beyond the pride of pedant rules,
And maxims of the schools,
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To steal upon the heart:
To touch the finer passions of the mind,
And give the sterling moral to mankind.
V.
He was the very glory of my race,Even in the vale of life, in reason's bloom,
Adorn'd with every learned grace,
Amidst the shouts of power and praise,
For many a year he wore the bays;
Till tyrant Death
Stopt his much-honour'd breath,
And swept the laurel'd Hero to the tomb.
| Miscellanies (1785) | |