Poems on Several Occasions by Samuel Wesley. The Second Edition, with Additions |
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On the DEATH of Mrs. MORICE,
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 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
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On the DEATH of Mrs. MORICE,
Wife to William Morice, Esq. and Daughter of the Right Reverend Francis late Lord Bishop of Rochester.
------ Heu! nunc misero mihi demum
Exilium infelix! nunc alte vulnus adactum.
Exilium infelix! nunc alte vulnus adactum.
No Fabling Song, my mournful Heart, assay;
But genuine Grief adorn the flowing Lay:
In Numbers such as Friendship can inspire,
Wail the lost Daughter, and the living Sire:
'Till flinty Breasts resistless Sorrow know,
And melt reluctant at another's Woe;
'Till Party Zeal the Father shall deplore,
And those who hate him most shall pity more.
What time the State its Indignation shed,
And lanc'd its second Thunder on his Head:
When Nobles judg'd the well-defended Cause,
And Commons' Care supply'd defective Laws;
Then first the Wound relentless Fortune made,
Which, fest'ring, secret on her Vitals prey'd.
Guiltless she pin'd, or wholly guiltless She,
Or only stain'd with Filial Piety.
In vain might Friends to sooth her Anguish try,
No Friend a Father's Absence could supply;
No darling Children could afford Relief,
Her Parent's Fondness heal the Daughter's Grief:
No Sweets of Life sufficient Balm could prove,
Not the dear Softness of a Wedded Love:
The Pangs of Loss unbated still endure,
She tastes no Cordial, and admits no Cure.
With Health-impairing Sighs, unseen Decay,
She wears the slender Threads of Life away:
Nor Ease, nor Period can her Mourning have,
But the dark Shelter of the quiet Grave.
So when Italians with destructive Skill,
Or Indians rude in Good, but learn'd in Ill,
A fatal Draught mix for their secret Foe,
Avoidless sure, yet unsuspected slow,
The latent Death creeps on with ling'ring Smart,
And mocks the Antidotes of human Art:
So imperceptibly the Work is done,
That Nature half mistakes it for her own.
But genuine Grief adorn the flowing Lay:
In Numbers such as Friendship can inspire,
Wail the lost Daughter, and the living Sire:
'Till flinty Breasts resistless Sorrow know,
And melt reluctant at another's Woe;
'Till Party Zeal the Father shall deplore,
And those who hate him most shall pity more.
What time the State its Indignation shed,
And lanc'd its second Thunder on his Head:
When Nobles judg'd the well-defended Cause,
And Commons' Care supply'd defective Laws;
Then first the Wound relentless Fortune made,
Which, fest'ring, secret on her Vitals prey'd.
Guiltless she pin'd, or wholly guiltless She,
Or only stain'd with Filial Piety.
In vain might Friends to sooth her Anguish try,
No Friend a Father's Absence could supply;
No darling Children could afford Relief,
Her Parent's Fondness heal the Daughter's Grief:
192
Not the dear Softness of a Wedded Love:
The Pangs of Loss unbated still endure,
She tastes no Cordial, and admits no Cure.
With Health-impairing Sighs, unseen Decay,
She wears the slender Threads of Life away:
Nor Ease, nor Period can her Mourning have,
But the dark Shelter of the quiet Grave.
So when Italians with destructive Skill,
Or Indians rude in Good, but learn'd in Ill,
A fatal Draught mix for their secret Foe,
Avoidless sure, yet unsuspected slow,
The latent Death creeps on with ling'ring Smart,
And mocks the Antidotes of human Art:
So imperceptibly the Work is done,
That Nature half mistakes it for her own.
When inward fretting Grief had almost drain'd
Her ebbing Veins, nor much of life remain'd,
Each Hour her pious Pray'rs more ardent grow
To meet her Exil'd Father once below.
Whoe'er the Hazards of her Health display,
Against their Purpose urge her speedy Way,
Lest Death prevent her reaching Gallia's Shore;
That only Sting the King of Terrors bore.
Still pleasing Hope her sickly Limbs upheld,
Weakness itself, by true Affection steel'd,
Distance, and Toils, and Dangers could disdain,
And Seas and Mountains were oppos'd in vain.
Rise to her Wishes, rise, propitious Gales,
And with new Swiftness wing the flagging Sails.
What Sails can equal to her Wishes go?
The Tide rolls tedious and the Wind flies slow;
The pensive Days in heavy March proceed,
Time, ever-hasting, seems to slack his Speed:
For Love too slow, for Life he flies too fast,
And ev'ry painful Hour forebodes the last.
Long-swooning Faintness wakes her Consort's Fear,
And waneing Strength shews Dissolution near.
Her Soul unconquer'd yet, disdains to part,
And holds the Citadel of Love, the Heart;
Determin'd stedfast not to seek the Skies,
'Till the dear Father bless her longing Eyes.
In vain did Nature, spent, forbid her Stay,
And Guardian Angels beckon her away:
With frailer Flesh th' immortal Spirit strove,
Strong to delay the Stroke, tho' not remove,
And Death all conqu'ring yields a while to Love.
So the brave Theban Chief, transfix'd by Foes,
(With whom Boetia's Empire fell and rose)
To Death, tho' deeply wounded, scorns to yield,
'Till his lov'd Soldiers gain'd the well-fought Field;
Then bids his willing Soul triumphant fly,
And when his Vows are heard, consents to dye.
Her ebbing Veins, nor much of life remain'd,
Each Hour her pious Pray'rs more ardent grow
To meet her Exil'd Father once below.
Whoe'er the Hazards of her Health display,
Against their Purpose urge her speedy Way,
Lest Death prevent her reaching Gallia's Shore;
That only Sting the King of Terrors bore.
Still pleasing Hope her sickly Limbs upheld,
Weakness itself, by true Affection steel'd,
Distance, and Toils, and Dangers could disdain,
And Seas and Mountains were oppos'd in vain.
Rise to her Wishes, rise, propitious Gales,
And with new Swiftness wing the flagging Sails.
193
The Tide rolls tedious and the Wind flies slow;
The pensive Days in heavy March proceed,
Time, ever-hasting, seems to slack his Speed:
For Love too slow, for Life he flies too fast,
And ev'ry painful Hour forebodes the last.
Long-swooning Faintness wakes her Consort's Fear,
And waneing Strength shews Dissolution near.
Her Soul unconquer'd yet, disdains to part,
And holds the Citadel of Love, the Heart;
Determin'd stedfast not to seek the Skies,
'Till the dear Father bless her longing Eyes.
In vain did Nature, spent, forbid her Stay,
And Guardian Angels beckon her away:
With frailer Flesh th' immortal Spirit strove,
Strong to delay the Stroke, tho' not remove,
And Death all conqu'ring yields a while to Love.
So the brave Theban Chief, transfix'd by Foes,
(With whom Boetia's Empire fell and rose)
To Death, tho' deeply wounded, scorns to yield,
'Till his lov'd Soldiers gain'd the well-fought Field;
Then bids his willing Soul triumphant fly,
And when his Vows are heard, consents to dye.
Behold They meet! so Providence decrees,
All she desires on Earth, on Earth she sees:
Her Terrors now are ceas'd; when He is near,
Her Father's Daughter knows not how to fear.
The long-fought Strife her Spirit now gave o'er,
And sought the Quiet that it shun'd before.
The Father bless'd her e'er to Heav'n she went,
The Priest absolv'd the dying Penitent.
But lest She grieve for Sorrows not her own,
And Nature's Yearning cause a single Groan,
He, self-collected, check'd th' ascending Sigh,
And springing Tears commanded from his Eye.
Mean while his aking Heart tumultuous strove,
With Grief despairing and paternal Love,
Love in'ly wounds him with distracting Woe,
Compels to feel it, but forbids to show.
His Voice unfault'ring, and his Looks serene,
An outward Calmness veils the Storm within.
So when in Subterranean Caverns pent,
The Winds hard-struggling labour for a Vent,
Direful, but secret, works the Mine below,
Strong and more strong th' imprison'd Tempests grow.
The Surface smiles, and verdant Fields appear
Secure, and far from Danger as from Fear:
Not long; for instant springs the breaking Ground,
And scatters Waste avoidless all around.
All she desires on Earth, on Earth she sees:
Her Terrors now are ceas'd; when He is near,
Her Father's Daughter knows not how to fear.
The long-fought Strife her Spirit now gave o'er,
And sought the Quiet that it shun'd before.
194
The Priest absolv'd the dying Penitent.
But lest She grieve for Sorrows not her own,
And Nature's Yearning cause a single Groan,
He, self-collected, check'd th' ascending Sigh,
And springing Tears commanded from his Eye.
Mean while his aking Heart tumultuous strove,
With Grief despairing and paternal Love,
Love in'ly wounds him with distracting Woe,
Compels to feel it, but forbids to show.
His Voice unfault'ring, and his Looks serene,
An outward Calmness veils the Storm within.
So when in Subterranean Caverns pent,
The Winds hard-struggling labour for a Vent,
Direful, but secret, works the Mine below,
Strong and more strong th' imprison'd Tempests grow.
The Surface smiles, and verdant Fields appear
Secure, and far from Danger as from Fear:
Not long; for instant springs the breaking Ground,
And scatters Waste avoidless all around.
When Death had seal'd her Eyes in lasting Sleep,
And gave th' afflicted Father leave to weep,
In Words like these bursts his long-stiffled Moan,
(If any may be liken'd to his own).
“Is this the Healing of my former Care?
“This the sad Answer of continued Pray'r?
“No longer Space could angry Heav'n bestow?
“And thus! thus only! must we meet below?
“Me to remotest Realms my Fortune sends,
“Depriv'd of present, nay, of absent Friends:
“Tis fatal with my Woes to sympathize!
“He dies who writes, as He who sees me dies!
“Nor e'en This Exile seem'd enough severe,
“To my lost Country Brussels rose too near;
“Nor Paris' Walls these hoary Hairs can screen,
“My Fate pursues me to the Bank of Sein!
“Let it pursue! still, still could I withstand
“The utmost Fury of a mortal Hand.
“But with resistless Force the Vengeance flies,
“When God inflicts the Pains and Penalties.
“Yet, oh! had Judgment fall'n on Me alone,
“Nor broke a Heart far dearer than mine own!
“The Arrow glancing pierc'd Her faithful Side,
“For Me she languish'd and for me she dy'd!
“My late sole Stay!—
But hold—if Speech the Anguish may reveal,
He only can describe it, who could feel.
Then cease, my Soul, oh! cease the plaintive Tale,
And where the pencil sails Thee, draw the Veil.
And gave th' afflicted Father leave to weep,
In Words like these bursts his long-stiffled Moan,
(If any may be liken'd to his own).
“Is this the Healing of my former Care?
“This the sad Answer of continued Pray'r?
“No longer Space could angry Heav'n bestow?
“And thus! thus only! must we meet below?
“Me to remotest Realms my Fortune sends,
“Depriv'd of present, nay, of absent Friends:
195
“He dies who writes, as He who sees me dies!
“Nor e'en This Exile seem'd enough severe,
“To my lost Country Brussels rose too near;
“Nor Paris' Walls these hoary Hairs can screen,
“My Fate pursues me to the Bank of Sein!
“Let it pursue! still, still could I withstand
“The utmost Fury of a mortal Hand.
“But with resistless Force the Vengeance flies,
“When God inflicts the Pains and Penalties.
“Yet, oh! had Judgment fall'n on Me alone,
“Nor broke a Heart far dearer than mine own!
“The Arrow glancing pierc'd Her faithful Side,
“For Me she languish'd and for me she dy'd!
“My late sole Stay!—
But hold—if Speech the Anguish may reveal,
He only can describe it, who could feel.
Then cease, my Soul, oh! cease the plaintive Tale,
And where the pencil sails Thee, draw the Veil.
Yet, still Himself let the Great Prelate know,
Still rais'd superiour to his Weight of Woe;
Instruct Mankind their Load of Life to bear,
And shame the Murm'rer, and the Wretched cheer:
Try'd, not forsook; one Refuge yet remains,
So Nature's everlasting Law ordains;
Which Statesmen's Art and Soldiers Force defies,
And mocks the Rage of keenest Enemies;
Which kindly softens the severest Doom,
The Loser's Conquest, and the Exile's Home:
To that sure Refuge let him calmly fly,
And bless the glorious Privilege—To Die.
Late may he land on that safe happy Shore,
Where Loss afflicts, and Pain torments nor more:
There sleep, from Grief and Banishment releas'd,
And there the wearied Father lie at rest;
His Course well ended, Heav'nly Glory share,
And rise triumphant to the last Great Bar.
Still rais'd superiour to his Weight of Woe;
Instruct Mankind their Load of Life to bear,
And shame the Murm'rer, and the Wretched cheer:
Try'd, not forsook; one Refuge yet remains,
So Nature's everlasting Law ordains;
Which Statesmen's Art and Soldiers Force defies,
And mocks the Rage of keenest Enemies;
Which kindly softens the severest Doom,
The Loser's Conquest, and the Exile's Home:
196
And bless the glorious Privilege—To Die.
Late may he land on that safe happy Shore,
Where Loss afflicts, and Pain torments nor more:
There sleep, from Grief and Banishment releas'd,
And there the wearied Father lie at rest;
His Course well ended, Heav'nly Glory share,
And rise triumphant to the last Great Bar.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |