Miscellany Poems By Tho. Heyrick |
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To Sr. James Butler, on the Death of the Lady Butler:
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 | Miscellany Poems |  |
To Sr. James Butler, on the Death of the Lady Butler:
In a Dialogue between H. and J.
(H.)Welcome dear Friend! Thou dost my Griefs dispell,
No Sorrow long can wound, when Thou art well.
Ill-boding Dreams o're my sad Fancy rowl'd,
And the approach of some black Fate foretold:
Strange frightfull Spectres o're my Mind were spread;
I saw the Vertues and the Graces bleed,
As thô the Soul o'th' Universe was dead.
Avert the Omen Heaven!
(J.)
Thy Cautions spare,
There's nothing left that now deserves thy Care.
All Worth and Excellence with One is fled,
The Quintessence of all, that's Great, is dead.
Th' Expiring World groan'd at Her Funeral,
With whom the Glories of her Sex did fall.
(H.)
What ill do my Presaging thoughts Divine?
Spare One, Just Heaven, I'll to thy Will resign;
One Inno'cent spare; and all the rest be Thine.
(J.)
We multiply the sorrows, that we dread,—
Meet then the Storm that hover's o're thy Head;
The Fair, Chaste, Spouse of Noble Butler's dead.
(H.)
Too much—Fate hath not now a Curse in store,
I've heard the worst of Ills, and Fear no more.
(J.)
The whole World seem'd distracted at her fall,
Amazing Horrour seized upon All.
73
The Savages confused Cries do rear,
And think, the World's Catastrophe is near.
With frightfull Fury hideously they roar
To scare the Monster, would the Sun devour.
They gain their Point, but we lament in vain,
Our Sun is set, never to Rise again.
(H.)
Yet let's Lament; 'tis all that we can doe,
To think of Bliss, that's past, amidst our Wo,
Heightens our Grief; but vents our Sorrows too.
(J.)
She fell an Holocaust of Chast Delight,
Beauteous and Fair, as Rays of new-born Light.
Charming, as Vertues i'th' Idæa be,
Or Graces, seen by th' Intellectual Eye.
(H.)
So falls the Rose, Queen of the fragrant Bowers,
She falls the Glory o'th' Enamell'd Flowers,
While Heav'en laments her Death in melting Showers.
(J.)
To blooming Youth a boundless Wit was given,
Not got with Labour, but infus'd from Heaven.
Beauty did o're her Soul and Body shine,
Her Body seem'd, ev'n as her Soul, Divine.
CHORUS.
Wit, Youth, and Beauty made Her Bright,
Did all in Her agree:
None else, but Phœbus, God of Light,
Is Sourse of all the Three.
(H.)
Angels can't sin: They'r plac'd in such a State,
They nor can Fall, nor can Degenerate.
They merit Praise, who by their Choice are Good,
Not those, who can't be Vitious, if They wou'd.
Nor justly can Rewards to Angels come;
Vertue's not Abstinence in them, but Doom.
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That liv'd in Heaven, thô in this lower Sphear:
And, thô a Mortal, rival'd Angels here?
They've no Temptation, and She scorned all:
They live Above, She trampled on this Ball.
To what was Good, like Angels, vigorous still,
And every thing did Dare to doe, but Ill.
(J.)
What Vertues were there, but her Soul did grace,
Vertues not known, but in an Higher place,
Nor acted, but by the Seraphick Race?
Her Help, like Guardian Angels, she bestow'd,
Bounteous as Nature, or as Nature's God.
On all she look'd with an Auspicious Ray,
So Good, from Her none went displeas'd away.
And so Devout, she seem'd all o'r Divine,
That Hallelujah's her whole task had been,
Or that one Saint pray'd at another's Shrine.
(H.)
She's Dead! not all her Worth could bribe her Fate;
So in the Grave, divested of all state,
Lie Young and Old, the Humble and the Great.
Thou, Butler's Hero, who 'mong all the Stars
Of Courtly Beauties ne're saw'st One like Hers,
Art left like Us in vain to seek relief:
“Greatness is not exempt from Fate or Grief.
That Loss is trivial, which we can supply,
How stinging that, which Riches cannot buy,
Nor doth i'th' reach of Art or Honour lie!
To Thee a while the Heavenly Form was show'd,
Worthy the Gift or Ransome of a God.
Thy blessed Arms the Treasure did enfold,
(Too soon, alass! with Saints to be enrold.)
And when thy Soul did to high Transports rise,
She sunk from thy Admiring, Longing, Eyes.
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Even the Souls in Hell know no such Pain,
As once to' have been in Heaven and then to lose't again.
(J.)
Farewell, Heaven's Best of Gifts! In Thee were laid
Perfections, that have Gods of Mortals made.
Greatness of Soul, without insulting Pride.
Humility, where no mean thoughts reside;
And Vertue, unto Candour near ally'd!
(H.)
Thou Highest Point, that Nature could attain
The Moddel, She can never reach again.
Th' Acme, to which our finite Worth can rise,
Perfect, if Ought can be below the Skies.
CHORUS.
The World no longer gives us Ease,
All here must loathsome be:
But doubly Heaven our Souls will please,
When there We meet with Thee.
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