The Works of the Reverend and Learned Isaac Watts, D. D. Containing, besides his Sermons, and Essays on miscellaneous subjects, several additional pieces, Selected from his Manuscripts by the Rev. Dr. Jennings, and the Rev. Dr. Doddridge, in 1753: to which are prefixed, memoirs of the life of the author, compiled by the Rev. George Burder. In six volumes |
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LIII.—AN ELEGY ON SOPHRONIA, WHO DIED OF THE SMALL-POX, 1711. |
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 | The Works of the Reverend and Learned Isaac Watts, D. D. |  |
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LIII.—AN ELEGY ON SOPHRONIA, WHO DIED OF THE SMALL-POX, 1711.
Sophron is introduced speaking.]
I
Forbear, my friends, forbear, and ask no more,Where all my cheerful airs are fled?
Why will ye make me talk my torments o'er?
My life, my joy, my comfort's dead.
II
Deep from my soul, mark how the sobs arise,Hear the long groans that waste my breath,
And read the mighty sorrow in my eyes,
Lovely Sophronia sleeps in death.
III
Unkind disease, to veil that rosy faceWith tumours of a mortal pale,
While mortal purples with their dismal grace
And double horror spot the veil.
IV
Uncomely veil, and most unkind disease!Is this Sophronia, once the fair?
Are these the features that were born to please?
And beauty spread her ensigns there?
V
I was all love, and she was all delight.Let me run back to seasons past;
Ah flow'ry days, when first she charm'd my sight!
But roses will not always last.
VI
Yet still Sophronia pleas'd. Nor time, nor care,Could take her youthful bloom away:
Virtue has charms which nothing can impair;
Beauty like hers could ne'er decay.
VII
Grace is a sacred plant of heav'nly birth:The seed descending from above
Roots in a soil refin'd, grows high on earth,
And blooms with life, and joy and love.
VIII
Such was Sophronia's soul. Celestial dew,And angels' food were her repast:
Devotion was her work; and thence she drew
Delights which strangers never taste.
IX
Not the gay splendors of a flatt'ring courtCould tempt her to appear and shine:
Her solemn airs forbid the world's resort:
But I was blest and she was mine.
X
Safe on her welfare all my pleasures hung,Her smiles could all my pains control;
Her soul was made of softness, and her tongue
Was soft and gentle as her soul.
XI
She was my guide, my friend, my earthly all;Love grew with every waning moon:
Had heav'n a length of years delay'd its call,
Still I had thought it call'd too soon.
XII
But peace, my sorrows! Nor with murmuring voiceDare to accuse heav'n's high decree:
She was first ripe for everlasting joys;
Sophron, she waits above for thee.
| The Works of the Reverend and Learned Isaac Watts, D. D. | |