Merchant poems |
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The heavenly Vision. Sacred to the Memory of her Grace Anne Dutchess
of Hamilton, Chattlerault, and
Brandon, who died of Child-bearing the Seventeenth Year of her Age.
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 | Merchant |  |
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The heavenly Vision. Sacred to the Memory of her Grace Anne Dutchess of Hamilton, Chattlerault, and Brandon, who died of Child-bearing the Seventeenth Year of her Age.
In the still Hours when Nature takes her Nod,
And Saints in rapt'rous Dreams enjoy their God.
Tabitha's Temples felt an heav'nly Flame,
Whilst round her Couch swift burning Cherubs came.
A solemn Glory spread the shining Train,
She saw and blest the visionary Scene.
But ah! amongst the holy hymning Crowd,
Albion's bright Angel, fair Cochrania stood,
A Seraph perch'd her on a Cherub's Wing,
And as they flew did new made Anthems sing,
Ye fair, but false, stop, stop, Tabitha cry'd.
An Angel lag'd behind, and thus reply'd,
Don't think that we're of Wickedness possest,
That Envy lodges in an Angel's Breast,
If on a Dunghill lay the Morning-star,
And we transferr'd it to its proper Sphere;
Or if celestial Forms, should quit their Dome,
And visit Mortals in this lower Room,
And we were sent patrouling on Command,
To take and turn them to their native Land,
Would you complain we're arbitrary Pow'rs,
For snatching of our own, and nought that's your's?
Sev'nteen revolving Years the Sun has seen,
Upon your Dunghill Earth, this Heaven-born Queen,
Sick with the sultry Air she shuts her Eyes,
And mingles with her Mates, and mounts the Skies.
Don't sob her Epitaph, you want the Skill,
Tell it was written with an Angel's Quill.
And Saints in rapt'rous Dreams enjoy their God.
Tabitha's Temples felt an heav'nly Flame,
Whilst round her Couch swift burning Cherubs came.
A solemn Glory spread the shining Train,
She saw and blest the visionary Scene.
But ah! amongst the holy hymning Crowd,
Albion's bright Angel, fair Cochrania stood,
A Seraph perch'd her on a Cherub's Wing,
And as they flew did new made Anthems sing,
Ye fair, but false, stop, stop, Tabitha cry'd.
An Angel lag'd behind, and thus reply'd,
Don't think that we're of Wickedness possest,
That Envy lodges in an Angel's Breast,
If on a Dunghill lay the Morning-star,
And we transferr'd it to its proper Sphere;
Or if celestial Forms, should quit their Dome,
And visit Mortals in this lower Room,
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To take and turn them to their native Land,
Would you complain we're arbitrary Pow'rs,
For snatching of our own, and nought that's your's?
Sev'nteen revolving Years the Sun has seen,
Upon your Dunghill Earth, this Heaven-born Queen,
Sick with the sultry Air she shuts her Eyes,
And mingles with her Mates, and mounts the Skies.
Don't sob her Epitaph, you want the Skill,
Tell it was written with an Angel's Quill.
EPITAPH.
Never in a Bed of Rest,Did so much Beauty ly.
Never from an human Breast
Did so much Virtue fly.
| Merchant | |