Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

What Credit shall my Muse obtain?
Who will believe I more than feign?
When, weeping o'er Maria's Hearse,
I strow around my melancholy Verse?
She gave me Fortune, left me her sole Heir,
Dispell'd my Doubts, controul'd Despair,
And cur'd at once my Care.

151

She did all this—and yet I mourn,
Incessant o'er her sacred Urn,
And wish, in vain, she cou'd to Life return.

II.

Tho' Youth and Beauty long were fled,
Ere she was number'd with the Dead;
Tho' she had ceas'd to charm the Eye,
I wish'd she might not quickly die:
And now, to her dear Memory Just,
Revere her hallow'd Dust;
Nor think I can enough her Worth proclaim,
And pay due Honours to her valued Name.

III.

How can I e'er forget?
Or when discharge my Debt
To one, whose Love and Zeal, for me,
Disinterested were, and free?

152

What had I done to merit and engage
The Grace and Bounty of experienc'd Age?
To move a Mind, for noble Sense renown'd,
To pass her Kindred and her Country by,
Neglect a Crowd of old Companions round,
And on a Stranger set a Price so high?

IV.

Was it because I had a Share
Of thy Esteem, my Patron Stair?
To Walpole's Favour owe I hers?
Or was she captiv'd by my Verse?
Was sweet Ophelia the engaging Cause
Of all her Goodness and Applause!
Or, generous and unprompted, did she chuse
Her Heir, for his own Sake, and for his Muse?

153

Whate'er the Motive of her Love,
O let me not ingrateful prove!
Indelible may her Idea last,
In my most faithful Breast;
Or, when I drop Remembrance of her Name,
My Hand its Cunning lose, my Muse her Fame.

V.

No; from my grateful Heart
Her Image ne'er can part.
Each Place she visited and lov'd,
Whate'er she prais'd or disapprov'd;
Persons and Things which she held dear,
But most her Picture, ever near
My Sight, will keep her in my Mind,
Preserve the deep Impression made,
As if they were by her Last Will design'd
To Guarantee my Reverence for her Shade.

154

VI.

Condemn me not, Companions, now,
If pensive I shou'd grow.
Say not I'm full of Worldly Care,
And anxious how to use my Store;
Nor wish I had not been her Heir,
But still Poetically Poor—
They need to know my Spirit more,
Who think that Avarice dwells there.
'Tis Thought of what Maria was,
And what sad Loss I now sustain,
That puts me in this wretched Case,
And keeps alive my Pain.
What she cou'd do, she did for me;
And I despair, among her Sex, to see
One so accomplish'd, so Divine, as she.

155

VII.

Boast not, ye Beaus and Fops profane,
Of Favours from the Fair;
What Boon, what Bliss did e'er ye gain,
That might with mine compare?
What boots your momentary Joys?
Your Pleasure, that in Tasting, cloys!
What is it Beauty e'er bestows
Equal to what from Friendship flows?
Feast on the Sex's fancied Charms;
Go, riot in their fond and folding Arms—
Be it my Pride, that one, who knew
The World, and look'd it thro' and thro',
Cou'd judge of Books and Men aright,
The fairest once, and always most polite!

156

That she, regardless of the Crowd,
On me her envied Favours all bestow'd.
This Thought, amid my Sorrow, gives me Ease,
And never fails to please.