Poems on Several Occasions In Two Volumes. By Mr. Joseph Mitchell |
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VERSES Occasion'd by the Death of The Right Honourable the Countess of Grantham.
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 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
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VERSES Occasion'd by the Death of The Right Honourable the Countess of Grantham.
Pardon, O Shade Divine, th' officious Verse
That breaks the sacred Silence of thy Hearse.
The Muses' Grief, when for the Dead design'd,
Appears, at best, impertinently Kind!
That breaks the sacred Silence of thy Hearse.
The Muses' Grief, when for the Dead design'd,
Appears, at best, impertinently Kind!
Courtiers and Poets mix not oft in Care,
Their Passions and their Views so different are!
But, to this mourn'd Occasion, all must owe
One social Utterance of one general Woe.
So shall the distant Poles one Fate sustain,
When the last Trumpet wakes the Dead again.
Their Passions and their Views so different are!
But, to this mourn'd Occasion, all must owe
One social Utterance of one general Woe.
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When the last Trumpet wakes the Dead again.
Trembling, the Muse surveys the clouded Courts
How damp'd their Converse, and how dash'd their Sports!
What gloomy Paleness deadens every Face!
What sickning Memory checks each rising Grace!
The Royal Pair stand fix'd in gen'rous Pain,
And look a Grief that makes all Language vain.
Round, in deep Silence, sad'ning Passions flow,
And Sighs from Sighs catch the contagious Woe.
How damp'd their Converse, and how dash'd their Sports!
What gloomy Paleness deadens every Face!
What sickning Memory checks each rising Grace!
The Royal Pair stand fix'd in gen'rous Pain,
And look a Grief that makes all Language vain.
Round, in deep Silence, sad'ning Passions flow,
And Sighs from Sighs catch the contagious Woe.
Fancy, amidst the funeral Pomp is led,
And waits, in solemn March, the moving Dead.
Lodg'd, in cold Earth, her Body sinks resign'd,
But her immortal Image charms Mankind.
Soft sleep thy Dust to wait th' eternal Will;
Then rise unchang'd, and be an Angel still.
And waits, in solemn March, the moving Dead.
Lodg'd, in cold Earth, her Body sinks resign'd,
But her immortal Image charms Mankind.
Soft sleep thy Dust to wait th' eternal Will;
Then rise unchang'd, and be an Angel still.
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Ye loveliest of her fair Survivors, come,
And, with sweet Sorrow, grace her sacred Tomb.
Fix'd o'er her marble Mirror, leaning, see
What weak Defence from Death your Charms can be!
Think what she was; and, conscious of her Due,
Teach us, by mourning Her, to sigh for You.
And, with sweet Sorrow, grace her sacred Tomb.
Fix'd o'er her marble Mirror, leaning, see
What weak Defence from Death your Charms can be!
Think what she was; and, conscious of her Due,
Teach us, by mourning Her, to sigh for You.
But what wish'd Comfort shall the Muse afford
To the sad Bosom of her widow'd Lord?
Think—since not all your Love cou'd Life restrain—
How can your Sorrow charm her back again?
High above Hope or Fear, she now lives blest,
Where nothing, but your Woe, can break her Rest.
O let her, undisturb'd, those Blessings share,
Which cannot greater be, till You are there.
To the sad Bosom of her widow'd Lord?
Think—since not all your Love cou'd Life restrain—
How can your Sorrow charm her back again?
High above Hope or Fear, she now lives blest,
Where nothing, but your Woe, can break her Rest.
O let her, undisturb'd, those Blessings share,
Which cannot greater be, till You are there.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |