The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson including many pieces never before published. In Three Volumes |
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LINES TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUNG GENTLEMAN. |
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 | The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson |  |
219
LINES TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUNG GENTLEMAN.
“Fate snatch'd him early to the pitying sky.”
—POPE.
—POPE.
If Worth, too early to the grave consign'd,
Can claim the pitying tear or touch the mind;
If manly sentiments, unstain'd by art,
Could waken Friendship or delight the heart;
Ill-fated youth! to thee the Muse shall pay
The last sad tribute of a mournful lay;
On thy lone grave shall May's soft dews be shed,
And fairest flow'rets blossom o'er thy head;
The drooping lily, and the snow-drop pale,
Mingling their fragrant leaves, shall there recline,
While Cherubs, hov'ring on th' ethereal gale,
Shall chant a requiem o'er the hallow'd shrine.
Can claim the pitying tear or touch the mind;
If manly sentiments, unstain'd by art,
Could waken Friendship or delight the heart;
Ill-fated youth! to thee the Muse shall pay
The last sad tribute of a mournful lay;
On thy lone grave shall May's soft dews be shed,
And fairest flow'rets blossom o'er thy head;
The drooping lily, and the snow-drop pale,
Mingling their fragrant leaves, shall there recline,
While Cherubs, hov'ring on th' ethereal gale,
Shall chant a requiem o'er the hallow'd shrine.
220
And if Reflection's piercing eye should scan
The trivial frailties of imperfect Man;
If in thy generous heart those passions dwelt
Which all should own, and all that live have felt;
Yet was thy polish'd mind so pure, so brave,
The young admir'd thee, and the old forgave.
And when stern Fate, with ruthless rancour, press'd
Thy withering graces to her flinty breast,
Bright Justice darted from her bless'd abode,
And bore thy Virtues to the throne of God;
While cold Oblivion, stealing o'er thy mind,
Each youthful folly to the grave consign'd.
The trivial frailties of imperfect Man;
If in thy generous heart those passions dwelt
Which all should own, and all that live have felt;
Yet was thy polish'd mind so pure, so brave,
The young admir'd thee, and the old forgave.
And when stern Fate, with ruthless rancour, press'd
Thy withering graces to her flinty breast,
Bright Justice darted from her bless'd abode,
And bore thy Virtues to the throne of God;
While cold Oblivion, stealing o'er thy mind,
Each youthful folly to the grave consign'd.
O! if thy purer spirit deigns to know
Each thought that passes in this vale of woe,
Accept the incense of a tender tear,
By Pity wafted on a sigh sincere.
And if the weeping Muse a wreath could give
To grace thy tomb and bid thy Virtues live,
Then Wealth should blush the gilded mask to wear,
And Avarice shrink, the victim of Despair;
While Genius, bending o'er thy sable bier,
Should mourn her darling Son with many a tear,
While in her pensive form the world should view
The only Parent that thy sorrows knew.
Each thought that passes in this vale of woe,
Accept the incense of a tender tear,
By Pity wafted on a sigh sincere.
And if the weeping Muse a wreath could give
To grace thy tomb and bid thy Virtues live,
Then Wealth should blush the gilded mask to wear,
And Avarice shrink, the victim of Despair;
While Genius, bending o'er thy sable bier,
Should mourn her darling Son with many a tear,
While in her pensive form the world should view
The only Parent that thy sorrows knew.
| The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson | |