 | A Collection Of Poems |  |
239
On the Death of EDWARD late Lord Bishop of Chichester.
Hard is the Fate when falls exalted Pow'r,When Wit expires, and Beauty is no more;
But sadder Tears await the Good Man's Urn,
'Tis publick loss, and bids a Nation mourn;
'Tis like the flight th'Angelick Guardians took,
When guilty Paradise they sad forsook,
And left it to its Doom, the Judges Angry look.
Long since from Earth wou'd Guilt and black Offence,
Avert the friendly Eye of Providence;
But scatter'd through the Mass some Virtues shine,
Recall her Look, and Court the Smiles divine.
240
Supports Mankind's great Int'rest in the Sky;
For them the Clouds are spread, for them the Earth
Answers the Rustick's Toil, and Teems with smiling Birth,
For them the patient Sun renews the Day,
And rolls o'er thankless Worlds his joyous Ray.
Of these was Waddington, whose mournful Fate
Has thinn'd the Guardians of BRITANNIA's State.
Long, like the faithful Patriarch, greatly good,
He pleaded for his Country with his God.
His pious wish, made ev'ry Valley smile,
Nor knew the Swain who blest his anxious Toil.
Here Charity with bright Devotion join'd,
Display'd their double Blessings on Mankin'd;
Mercy his Lips implor'd, his Hand convey'd,
Himself the mighty Good for which he pray'd.
241
Rais'd the distress'd, and cheer'd Affliction's Brow.
Let others fight in true Religion's Cause,
Battle her Foes, and vindicate her Laws.
Religion asks not, like a haughty Dame,
The Champion bold her Beauty to proclaim;
To be admir'd the Goddess shou'd be seen,
Allure the Eye, before the Heart she win:
'Twas thine, great Waddington, by Deeds to show
How lovely Virtue shines confest to view.
Thy every Act well justified her Pow'r,
And taught the World by gazing to adore.
Viewing thy Life the Atheist might receive
Conviction, Volumes never knew to give.
There might he pining view with conscious Pain
To what a Godlike height Perfection ran,
And how the Christian can exalt the Man.
242
Vice will not see, nor stubborn Sense be won.
Scoffing Profaness midst a Drunken Age,
Rear'd high her Head, and with o'erspreading Rage
Drove the reclaiming Saint from off the Stage,
From an unworthy World he sighing rose,
And won his Heav'n with our Eternal Loss.
Then mourn, thou BRITAIN, so does Fate command,
The holy Lamp expir'd that sav'd the Land.
| A Collection Of Poems | |