University of Virginia Library

The Mourning Swain, a Funeral Eclogue:

On the much Lamented Death of the Right Honourable James Earl of Abingdon.

Menalcas, Damon, Alexis.
MENALCAS.
He sinks! he dies away!—Alexis! Friend!
'Tis thy Menalcas calls!—some God descend,
And save the Swain from an untimely End.
Ha! he grows Paler still!—O Damon! you
Are come, as you Prophetically knew
The Aid I wish'd, and what his Griefs wou'd do!

DAMON.
I heard the broken Sobs, and fault'ring Breath,
And Groans like those the Wretched give in Death.
What sad Occasion—

MENALCAS.
Ask not yet our Grief,
But lend the swooning Shepherd quick Relief:
Chafe, chafe his Temples; forward gently bow
The Body—this, or nothing else will do:
Tho' when his Spirits to their Seat return,
He lives to Grief, and but revives to mourn!

DAMON.
What unforeseen and sudden Stroke of Fate
Is this, that Nature sinks beneath the Weight?
That Life, retiring, shuns th'unequal Fight,
And if it conquers must o'ercome by Flight.

MENALCAS.
The worst that cou'd the wretched Youth attend:
Bertudor's Dead! his Master, Patron, Friend!
Bertudor! than which yet a worthier Name
Was ne'er took up, or sounded off by Fame.
I brought him Word the Noble Soul was flown,
And fear the Fatal News has wing'd his own.
Is this to be your Image? Cruel Pow'rs!
How are we Yours, when withering Grass and Flow'rs,
Vapours and Bubbles, are so truly Ours?—
—But see! the Blood does to his Cheeks ascend,
And Labouring Life returns—How fares my Mourning Friend?

ALEXIS.
Again! do I yet draw this hated Breath?
And, flying Life, can be but mock'd with Death?
Will not the Partial Pow'rs that rule above
Permit this last, best, dearest Act of Love,
To die! and by that Test our Sorrows prove?
Must we be doom'd in Being to remain,
Renew'd to Grief, and but preserv'd for Pain?
Ah! dear Menalcas! what an Ease 'twou'd be
Cou'd we at Will shake off Mortality!
Cou'd with our Tears our Lives dissolving fall,
And Grief had long Oblivion at her Call?
But 'twill not be!—in worst Extremes, as now,
The Soul wou'd rest in Death, and swoons to go,
When strugling Nature gives us back to Woe!

MENALCAS.
The Fatal Loss, Alexis, all will rue,
Heavy to us, but heavier yet to you:
You were acquainted with the Hero young,
He knew you early, and he lov'd you long.

ALEXIS.
He found me helpless, and of Friends bereft,
Of Parents, and the Little they had left.
The World look'd frowning on my Early Years,
And I seem'd destin'd by my Stars to Cares.
He took me, rais'd me, fix'd me in his Sight,
By Precept and Example kept me Right;—
But ah! the Lamp is gone, and I am hid in Night!
He taught me Good, then gave that Good regard;
But still, it still was short of the Reward.
With the new Day new Favours he'd impart,
Then make the World believe 'twas my Desert.
And shall? O shall this BENEFACTOR go,
And we not sing his Worth, and sigh our Woe?
The last sad Task that Gratitude can do!
Shall Time or Rage be suffer'd to efface
The Mem'ory of this best of British Race?
Shall Fame amid'st such Merit silent lie?
Shall e'er the Springs that water Grief be dry?
No! no! while Vertue does on Earth remain,
And Flocks and Herds feed on th'Oxonian Plain;
While Learning there and Piety increase,
And Truth can rest in the soft Arms of Peace;
While there is Wealth employ'd to Gene'rous Ends,
While there are Sweets in Love, and Faith in Friends,
So long the Muses shall his Loss deplore,
That rain'd a Golden Show'r on them, and Manna to the Poor.

DAMON.
How various are the Ways of Providence!
How crooked oft they seem to Human Sense!
He's gone! for whom there's not a Soul but Grieves,
And yet his Foe, the Treach'rous Jockney lives:
He Lives! (nor does degenerate from his Breed)
That never did one honourable Deed:
Yet lives in Prosp'rous Fortune, high in Trust,
But barba'rous to Desert, and plung'd in Lust:
He lives! that yet ne'er did a Loan restore,
E'er pay a Debt, or e'er relieve the Poor:
He lives! that wou'd subvert the Church and State,
And ride 'em, loaded with Despotick Weight:
He lives! that nothing Impious e'er did shun;
He lives! a longer Race of Vice to run;
He lives! and yet the good Bertudor's gone!

MENALCAS.
If Vertue meet with a so early Fate,
Can Vice presume to hope a longer Date?
If Tempe'rance thus at Noon is snatch'd away,
Can wild Excess expect to End the Day?

ALEXIS.
It does! it does! and ev'ry Wish succeeds,
On Down it lies, and on Ambrosia feeds;
No inward Pang it feels, or future Reck'ning dreads.
The best, alas! are summon'd first to go,
Have least Success, and least Regard below.
The Haughty mount, and on the Humble tread,
Depress 'em Living, and Revile 'em Dead:
Their Honours, won with Blood, are from 'em torn,
And by their Mortal Foes insulting worn.
No Disappointments e'er th'Unjust attend,
The Just have hardly GOD or Man their Friend.
Hence Providence is oft misunderstood,
Scoff'd by bad Men, and doubted by the Good;
While undistinguish'd Right and Wrong are hurl'd,
And Knave and Fool between 'em share the World.

MENALCAS.
'Tis not for Man, with a too daring Eye,
To look into the Secrets of the Sky;
Or if he shou'd, in vain he strives to see
Thro' the Dark-woven Folds of Destiny.
As the Meridian Sun, all flaming bright,
Gaz'd on, confounds, and quenches human Sight;
So Reason fails, and sinks beneath the Weight
Of Will, Omniscience, Providence and Fate:
From the high Beach 'twou'd look the Ocean o'er,
But there's no Reaching to the distant Shore:
Abstruse, Immense, and barring all Access,
The further we go on, the more 'tis Wilderness!
But thou, Great Soul, disburthen'd of thy Freight,
Art Landed on that other Side of Fate;
To Thee those Distributions now are clear,
That so perplex, and so confound us here.
'Tis true, thus much by Reason's understood;
Affliction is the Test that tries the Good:
Where'er it visits 'tis by Heav'n's Command;
Not Shuffl'd out, as Vice wou'd understand,
With blinking Eyes, and a Promiscu'ous Hand.
If Prosp'rous Fortunes are to most a Snare,
Why not th'Afflicted God's peculiar Care?
Expos'd to black'ning Tongues, and faithless Friends,
Only to ply their Souls for Nobler Ends;
For Regions where w'are known, and know aright,
Where Day is never to resign to Night,
And flying Time no more can bound Delight.
Shou'd Pleasure here run smooth with equal Feet,
And a long Life no Disappointments meet;
Shou'd the first Honours be by Worth possest,
Humility advanc'd, and Pride deprest;
Shou'd Hope succeed and Root out ever'y Care,
Our Friends all Faithful, and all Chast the Fair;
What e'er Hereafter more were to be giv'n,
We here shou'd fix, and seek no other Heav'n.
But since this never was, nor will be so,
Not Revelation scarce can plainer show
That Vertue's not to wear her Crown below.
This Contemplation shou'd Your Griefs remove;
Our very Suffe'rings a Reward does prove,
It must not be on Earth—and it must be Above.

ALEXIS.
Of this, Menalcas, I am conscious too,
But what avails it to divert our Woe?
Bertudor, tho' to endless Glory gone,
Has left us Cause for a whole Age's Moan.
When Great Elijah did on high ascend,
And Heav'n's bright Chariot his Ascent attend,
What Joy was it to his Remaining Friend?
He, in His Loss, deplor'd his Country's Fate,
Their Civil Strifes, and Cruel Hazael's Hate;
Nor yet is Ours a fix'd unmurmu'ring State.
When will Delive'rance from Oppression come,
If such as HE are call'd so Early Home?
When will our Publick Fears and Private Hate
Be at an end, and lose such Props of State?
Who, when the Royal Cause is sunk so low,
Will set so vast a Fortune at a Throw,
And with such Skill divert th'Impending Blow?
Who in the Gap, when Force wou'd RIGHT devour,
Will stand so firm against Unbounded Pow'r?
Stemming the Tide of Violated Laws,
Till he has made the Just the Prospe'rous Cause?
O Britain! Thou, whose Happiness he sought,
Whose Happiness he wou'd with Life have bought,
Thy Peace his constant Aim, and still intending Thought;
Let thy sad Genius now put Sables on,
And thro' the Land diffuse her Faithful Moan,
That ev'ry Eye may Weep, and ev'ry Breast may Groan!
And Thou, O Learned Town! whose sacred Name
Has been so long th'unenvy'd Theme of Fame;
Thou, too, shoud'st in the Mourning Concert share,
Scarcely so much thy Guardian Angels Care.
Who e'er before made Thee appear so Great,
Or in thy Civil, Learn'd, or Martial State?
Or who hereafter (thro' more Tryals prov'd)
Will leave Thee—so bemoan'd, and so belov'd?
How did he Factious Fears and Doubts controul!
How still Contention! and how tune the Soul!
How baffle Envy! and how Silence Pride!
In all Elections certain to Preside.
Others to Feuds and Violence wou'd run,
But where He came he made all Voices one.
With a bare Breath they mov'd as he inclin'd,
Like standing Corn all bending with the Wind.
At once to RIGHT and ROYALTY a Friend;
Nor did he to thy Burroughs recommend
A needy Race, for Policy to bait,
Like Gudgeons, catch'd with Pensions by the S---te.
But while, blest City, I'd thy HERO show,
I rove, and make Disgressions from my Woe.
Ah! never! never cease to sigh his Name!
So true to Honour, and so dear to Fame!
Let all thy Sons bewail th'Exalted Man,
And Thou, Immortal YALDING! lead the Van,
Thou who new Force dost to our Langu'age give;
He who so well can Praise, as well may Grieve.
Ransack the silent Seat where Mem'ory lies,
To bring our Woes Proportional Supplies:
Let not the Hoary Dews of Lethe steep
So many Vertues in Eternal Sleep:
But as they pass our Intellectual View,
Let Sorrow grave 'em deep, and keep 'em new:
Then, when we have survey'd th'Amazing Store,
Let us reflect their OWNER is no more!
How all that's Prudent, Noble, Just and Brave,
Is cover'd with Bertudor in the Grave!
O Thought! that on the Rack does ev'ry Nerve constrain!
Distraction were less Grief! and Dying gentler Pain.

MENALCAS.
My dear Alexis, if that Rain must fall,
But speak the Hero's Worth—and weep it all.

ALEXIS.
It was my full Design:—but first my Friend,
(And Prostrate I'll the sad Account attend)
Tell by what Malady he hence was torn,
With how confus'd a Grief the Loss was born,
All Raving!—'twas too little, sure, to Mourn!
He had to Human Sight no least Decay,
Warm as a Summer Sun's reviving Ray,
Nor Promis'd less than a long Summer's Day;
Fresh as the Morning, when the Pearly Dew
Foretells the bright Meridian to ensue:
But there he stopt! there did the Gloom arise!
Veil'd with surrounding Clouds from Human Eyes!
Eclips'd! when most conspicuous in the Skies!
Unwillingly the Rural Shades he left;
(Unhappy Shades! of all your Joys bereft!)
Never in Senate he deny'd his Aid;
This only, only Time he wou'd have staid;
But 'twas his Country call'd—whose Call he still obey'd.
—But I prevent Thee; dear Menalcas, on;
And—if I can—I'll stifle in my Moan

MENALCAS.
To tell you true (who e'er it may displease)
He dy'd of the Physician;—a Disease
That long has reign'd, and, eager of Renown,
More than a Plague Depopulates the Town.
Inflam'd with Wine, and blasting at a Breath,
All it's Prescriptions are Receipts for Death.
Millions of Mischiefs by it's Rage is wrought,
Safe where 'tis fled, but Barba'rous where 'tis sought.
A black, Ingrateful Ill! that, call'd to Aid,
Is still most Fatal where it best is paid.
So slight at first his Ail, it cou'd have done
No further harm, but must of Course been gone,
Had not this worse Malignance forc'd it on;
And cruelly (till then all Pure and Good)
With it's own Venom dash'd the circl'ing Flood.—
By this time we the Hero's Danger found;
He near Expiring, and we Weeping round.
The Sighs of Widows, and the Orphans Cries,
Importunate for Aid, besieg'd the Skies.—
—And now the Fever seem'd in part t'Asswage;
Death grinn'd a horrid Smile, and half forgot his Rage.
As he grew better so the Town reviv'd,
As Joy it self were from his Health deriv'd.
But whether 'twere to shew, tho' ne'er so late,
How fervent Prayer can turn the Course of Fate;
Or whether 'twere a last expiring Glare,
The fatal Hope that ushers in Despair;
Or whether yet the Line of the Disease
Cou'd be no further lengthn'd out for Fees,
He soon relaps'd; relapsing weaker grew,
And the pale Tyrant came again in view.
Here Grief was at it's utmost stretch disclos'd,
We all Confounded! he alone Compos'd.
What Blessings did he to his Friends bequeath!
What Joys describe! what dying Raptures breath!
With what Assurance did he meet his Fate!
How fearless pass th'inevitable Gate!
His Soul had by Anticipation here,
A Taste of Heav'n before it yet was there.
O Truth! O Innocence! O peaceful Close!
Hail him (ye Angels) to his long Repose.—
But now an universal burst of Woe,
Thro' all the Town did like a Torrent flow.
The very Senate mourn'd his early Fate,
Mourn'd this ADJUSTER of the Church and State;
As quite despairing any more to see
RELIGION reconcil'd to POLICY.
The Clergy next their PATRIOT's loss deplore,
No more to hear his Voice! to have his Smiles no more!
In dangerous Times they freshly call'd to Mind,
How diffe'rent Parties in their Aid he joyn'd;
Then, with a Grief too big to speak in Tears,
In Silence sunk beneath their former Fears:
For ne'er before, in the most impious Age,
Were they pursu'd with such invet'rate Rage,
So slighted by the Great, and slander'd from the Stage.
His Friends you next might see Distracted stand,
Too weak the Streams of Anguish to Command:
Nor Compass, Card, or Pilot left to Guide,
They hopeless plunge into the raging Tide.
But theirs, and ev'ry Grief the Poor's out-did,
Tearing the very Earth up to be hid,
And Raving Self-destruction was forbid!
A frightful Prospect they before 'em see
Of Wants, and unreliev'd Adversity,
Ev'n those that knew him but by common Fame,
With Tears repeat their common Patriot's Name.
Nor less of our regard it ought to have,
To think what Numbers mourn'd him to the Grave:
With mutual Praise their mutual Sighs did vie,
And from so many Mouths opprest the Sky—
There rest his Ashes:—but his nobler Name,
Expanding as it mounts the Starry Frame,
Shall fill the expiring Breath, and latest gasp of Fame.

DAMON.
'Tis done, the Task you bid Menalcas do;
His Praise, a Nobler Task, we now expect from you.

ALEXIS.
That Praise, alas! shou'd be by Angels Sung,
At least the first of the Castalian Throng:
Not in my Numbers, broken, rough and lame,
But Verse of the Duration of his Fame;
Such as where-ever read shou'd sway in Chief;
Mine's but the Duty of a Servant's Grief:
Tho' yet (so much my Soul his Name reveres)
What in my Stile unelegant appears,
I'll sanctify with Truth, and polish with my Tears.
Witness ye everlasting Lamps above,
Ye sacred Lights that round us nightly move,
Witness how oft, when the long Day was done,
And all Devotion silent but his own,
W'ave seen him on his Knees before th'immortal Throne.
As if at neither Morning, Noon and Ev'n,
There Hours enow to Piety were giv'n,
Part of the Night in Prayer he always spent,
The Time by most to Wine and Lewdness lent.
No Hypocrite e'er with more Ardour cou'd
Unseen be Ill, than he'd unseen be Good.
What ever doing, or where e'er he were,
His Privacies did no Detection fear;
We ne'er cou'd find him when unfit to see,
Nor hear him, but the Theme was Piety.
No Faith by Works was ever readier shown,
If when no Act of Charity is done,
That Day be lost—He never squander'd one.
As soon the Sun might cross from Pole to Pole,
As soon the wand'ring Planets cease to roll,
As he dismiss the Poor without their Dole.
No Fears, by which our Scepticks are distrest,
E'er found the least Admittance to his Breast:
Where-e'er he turn'd his View, Sea, Earth and Skies,
GOD, in his Works, was present to his Eyes.
Unhappy they, that see this wond'rous Frame,
And after make a Doubt from whence it came!
His Converse, tho' 'twas cheerful, ne'er was vain;
His Soul wou'd start to hear a Word profane:
That fatal Rock where half our Nobles split,
Lost for the poor Repute of having Wit:
With such the Vertuous are the only Elves,
But Devils are thought Angels by themselves.
Where once he lov'd he never cou'd distrust;
Kind to a Fault, and to a Scruple just:—
But most, he most did fly the Snares of Lust.
Not all the Darts thrown by the beauteous kind,
That, Light'ning like, so quick a Passage find;
Not all their Wit, and never ending Art,
His once engag'd Affection cou'd divert,
Or melt the Chastity that wall'd his Heart.
Our Saviour's Precept he to Practice brought,
And never, never lusted, not in Thought.
And to reward his Truth, he twice was joyn'd
In Wedlock to the best of Womankind.
The first, the brightest purest Soul that e'er
Was sent from Heaven, to shew us Mortals here
What Angels and translated Saints are there!
To see her once was ev'ry Charm to know
Of Peace above, or Purity below;
Imagination cou'd no further go!
So Sweet her Form, th'Idea warms us yet!—
But Ah! that Light in all her Glory set,
In all her Youth (and we all drown'd in Tears)
E'er she had numbred three and thirty Years:
Yet thirteen times had call'd Lucina's Aid,
And was as oft a happy Mother made.
His Next did a like Scene of Joy presage;
That sent to charm his Youth, and this to bless his Age.
Her Mind so justly to her Form contriv'd,
The living Wife but seem'd the Dead reviv'd.
No Jot Impar'd, or less amazing bright,
For her succeeding such a Glorious Light:
A strange Eclipse had certainly been thrown
On any Face, or Vertue but her OWN.
Here were a Subject now our Voice to raise,
To sing at once her Sorrows and her Praise!
A Year! but one short Year in Wedlock run,
E'er robb'd of all her Conq'ring Eyes had won!
Her Eyes! a Charm that cou'd for Ages bind,
Were Comfort certain, or had Fate been kind.
Ah beaute'ous Widow! cou'd I think, when late
The Muse did on your happy Nuptials wait,
That such a Scene of Pleasure, Love and Light,
So soon wou'd close in Everlasting Night!
That one short Year wou'd so destructive prove
To strictest Vertue, and the noblest Love!
Ah! what avails our Hope, if Truth must here
Be least, or latest Providence's Care?
What Comfort have we to'wards the Goal to strive,
If thus the Stream of Fate at Random drive?
If all the Blessings of the Good and Fair
Must, like a Bubble break, and end in Air!

DAMON.
You know there's none exempt from human Cares—
But, Friend, you lose his Vertues in your Tears.

ALEXIS.
Forgive me, Damon, I've too long digrest;
But who cou'd hold to see such Charms distrest?
Vast are the Praises to his Vertues due,
But some Regard must wait on Beauty too:
Ev'n he himself wou'd Pardon such a Start,
That give our Duty where he gave his Heart—
—But to our View his Tempe'rance next appears,
His fast Companion from his Early Years.
In all th'Afflue'nce of a Wealth so vast,
He ne'er the Common Bounds of Nature past.
Tho' on his Board (where all the Seasons smil'd)
What Earth cou'd furnish plenteously was pil'd;
Tho' there the Sea a constant Tribute paid,
And Richest Wines (declining Nature's Aid)
Flow'd round, as from a Spring that ne'er decay'd;
'Twas but prepar'd, proportion'd to his Store,
To feast his Neighbours, and to feed the Poor.
Who born so high, wou'd yet so low descend?
Then only Proud, when he cou'd serve a Friend.
Upon his Word you, as on Fate, might rest;
The rather, if it crost his Interest.
To Truth ev'n his most trivial Thoughts did tend;
As heavy Bodies sink, and Flames ascend.
Ev'n Contraries his Meekness reconcil'd;
As soon as Anger touch'd his Breast, 'twas Mild:
Sternly he to the Beard wou'd Vice reprove,
Tho' his Aversion still was meaning Love:
From most, Resentment does in Hate con clude
But his Concern was always for your Good.
For ev'ry turn of Human Chance prepar'd,
As none he Injur'd, so he nothing fear'd;
For Vertue ne'er was missing from his Guard.
Thus, by a wond'rous Mixture, you might find
In him the Hero and the Christian join'd,
The Loftiest Courage and the Lowliest Mind!—
What shall we say?—unless by Angels penn'd,
His Praises, like our Grief, can have no End.
Nature her self does of this WORTHY boast,
Aloud she cries—Here was no Labour lost:
While to their Various Molds I'd others fit,
Ten Thousand fail me for one Lucky Hit.
Hereafter, when the Nobler Souls I Frame,
Such as shall early get a Deathless Name,
And late pursue the shining Chase of Fame,
They by this PATTERN shall be all design'd;
And, Copying him, Exalt the long Degraded Kind.

MENALCAS.
Were not your Sight subservient to your Moan,
You wou'd perceive it is already done.
What Copy can you hope to see so fair
As that he drew in his Illustrious HEIR?
Who is more likely Fame's now sinking Blast
To lift again as high, and make it last?
A Noble Character I grant y'ave drawn;
But since 'tis Darkness there, look on the Rising Dawn:
What Promises Bertudor's Worth can give,
Like a new Eden, all in him revive.
Then in our Hope his CONSORT with him shares;
Born for his Ease, and soft'ning all his Cares,
She does the Noblest Modern Instance prove
Of Peace in Wedlock, and of Truth in Love.
This happy Pair thy Sorrows shou'd divert;
And never was a nobler Work for Art.

DAMON.
Begin, Alexis, let thy tuneful Song
Paint him all Lovely, Affable and Young:
Then let him shew the vast Advance his Youth
Has made in Honour, Eloquence and Truth;
How none to Pleasure e'er was less a Slave,
More thro'ly Noble, nor more early Brave.
With him, his Gene'rous Brother's Worth proclaim,
Who all they owe their Birth will pay in Fame:
In Peace, they shall the Arts of Peace adorn;
Or War, if they for Bloody War are born.
His Sisters then shou'd be Triumphant shown,
Their Sables off, and all their Brightness on;
Warming where e'er their happy Influ'ence flies,
Love in their Mien, and Conquest in their Eyes!

MENALCAS.
As justly shou'd the fair Carnarvan's Name
Be handed, with her Niece's, down to Fame:
She who by Vertue does assert her Blood,
And values less her Birth than being good:
That Sister who so much his Loss deplor'd,
And seem'd, at last, as hard to be restor'd:
That Sister who to save him wou'd have dy'd,
Who all his Sickness on her Knees wou'd 'bide—
Ah! cou'd so bright a Suppliant be deny'd!
Let not her num'rous Alms be hid in Night,
Tho' private done, and flying human Sight:
Nor shou'd her Chastity thy Pen decline,
The hereditary Vertue of the Line;—
Begin, and be thy Song as famous as thy Theme's Divine.

ALEXIS.
Ah Friends!—I grant my Duty owing there—
But first (ye Pow'rs!) I'll first perform it here;
First with a bleeding Heart, and weeping Verse,
Pay my last Homage to Bertudor's Herse.
That Office o'er, we to their Names will turn,
There truly Praise, as here we truly mourn.—
—But no such Theme shall now the Muse employ,
No thought of Comfort, nor no dream of Joy!
Faithful to Grief and wedded to my Moan,
All my Relief shall be—to hope for None!—
—Ha! Damon! where? whence come these dismal Cries?
Shriekt out, as they were Nature's Obsequies!
As if the general Doom just now were bid,
And cleaving Earth were yielding up its Dead!

MENALCAS.
To the same Cause of Grief the Country yields;
I spread the News thro' the Wiltonian Fields:
No longer now bemoan'd by Swain to Swain,
It gathers Head, and sweeps along the Plain:
Like an impetuous Flood it all o'erbears—
The Sadder Deluge, as 'tis made of Tears.

ALEXIS.
Lead on Menalcas.—This will be a Scene
Fit to Indulge the Sorrows I am in!
Hark! louder! how the sad affrighting Sound
Does from the Hills back on the Plain rebound,
And tells us—Death can now no deeper Wound!
The Flocks and Herds run bleating o'er the Plains,
And Sympathize with the Despairing Swains.
Some dismal Tydings Heav'n's uncommon Rage,
In Groans of Thunder, did last Night Presage.
The Faithful Dogs in horrid Concert howl'd,
And the fierce Wolves unguarded found the Fold,
While croaking Ravens Death and Woe foretold!
With Light'ning sindg'd, the blasted Heath is bare,
And Horror is the sole Possessor there.—
But let us haste and join 'em, now their Grief
Is at the full, and hopeless of Relief.
Bertudor is their Theme—Bertudor we
Will cry, and Echo back their Misery.
Bertudor! O Bertudor!—O no more!
For ever now no more!—
Away! and let me join the weeping Throng,
To hear him Mourn'd, to hear his Praises sung,
And die with the dear NAME upon my Tongue!