 | Poems on several subjects |  |
On the Death of the Honourable Henry Crawfoord of Monorgan, who died March 1731.
With sad reflection bygone times I view;
The world seems wild with changes that are now.
O strange! to see the most delightful place
So much refin'd, now turned to disgrace;
Where once of late, my dear Mæcenas reign'd,
My Muse's softer, and my choicest friend,
Heartsome and kind; how often have I seen
Him pleas'd, and smile at Christ's Kirk on the Green.
The whole of Ramsay's blyth diverting numbers
He much admir'd; they oft beguil'd his slumbers.
O kindly smiling, still he took delight
Me to instruct, and set my verses right.
He gave me books from his own liberary,
And borrow'd for me a Scots dictionary.
E'en to be short, what sense of verse I have,
I owe to him; but O! I now perceive
A drowsiness o'er all my soul to flow;
My fetter'd Muse faggs sore with grief and woe.
O grief! to see the pleasant fruits and flowers;
The shades and arbours, and the lightsome bow'rs;
Sweet gowany greens, and trees aft flourishing;
Melodious birds on boughs ay carolling;
Their artless music taught them by dame Nature,
The second parent of each living creature;
Gentle Zeph'rus whistling thro' the trees,
The ancient offspring of mount Hybla's bees;
From flower to flower, still gathering to increase
Their winter stock against a stormy stress.
All these are stain'd with the imperfect kind,
Which late delighted spirits more refin'd.
Once more, my Muse, reflect on these fine days
Wherein Monorgan merited thy praise.
Not only thine, alas! what canst thou do,
Poor giddy thing, dull, and illit'rate too?
Had I engine, as ancient Homer had,
His fame should then more amply be display'd.
Frail fading flesh uncertain is to trust,
For cruel death reduceth it to dust.
Stone monuments, or fame-recording verse
Can best old friendship afterwards rehearse.
How dull looks all the Sylvan train to see
The walks untrode, trode formerly by thee?
Where once, of late, the mavis us'd to sing,
The doleful owl makes all the groves to ring;
Where once, of late, the nurse's lull-a-ba,
And charming maids under Eliza's awe,
Made all the place delightful to the eyes,
Now all's dispers'd, all waste, all des'late lies.
The world seems wild with changes that are now.
O strange! to see the most delightful place
So much refin'd, now turned to disgrace;
Where once of late, my dear Mæcenas reign'd,
My Muse's softer, and my choicest friend,
Heartsome and kind; how often have I seen
Him pleas'd, and smile at Christ's Kirk on the Green.
The whole of Ramsay's blyth diverting numbers
He much admir'd; they oft beguil'd his slumbers.
12
Me to instruct, and set my verses right.
He gave me books from his own liberary,
And borrow'd for me a Scots dictionary.
E'en to be short, what sense of verse I have,
I owe to him; but O! I now perceive
A drowsiness o'er all my soul to flow;
My fetter'd Muse faggs sore with grief and woe.
O grief! to see the pleasant fruits and flowers;
The shades and arbours, and the lightsome bow'rs;
Sweet gowany greens, and trees aft flourishing;
Melodious birds on boughs ay carolling;
Their artless music taught them by dame Nature,
The second parent of each living creature;
Gentle Zeph'rus whistling thro' the trees,
The ancient offspring of mount Hybla's bees;
From flower to flower, still gathering to increase
Their winter stock against a stormy stress.
All these are stain'd with the imperfect kind,
Which late delighted spirits more refin'd.
Once more, my Muse, reflect on these fine days
Wherein Monorgan merited thy praise.
Not only thine, alas! what canst thou do,
Poor giddy thing, dull, and illit'rate too?
Had I engine, as ancient Homer had,
His fame should then more amply be display'd.
Frail fading flesh uncertain is to trust,
For cruel death reduceth it to dust.
Stone monuments, or fame-recording verse
Can best old friendship afterwards rehearse.
How dull looks all the Sylvan train to see
The walks untrode, trode formerly by thee?
Where once, of late, the mavis us'd to sing,
The doleful owl makes all the groves to ring;
Where once, of late, the nurse's lull-a-ba,
And charming maids under Eliza's awe,
Made all the place delightful to the eyes,
Now all's dispers'd, all waste, all des'late lies.
13
Gone then, dear friend! and shall your memory
Die with your body? O! forbid that I
Should more survive, when once your fame is dead;
But why should I think it can ever fade?
Your fame shall live in your sweet progenie,
Your Consort's comfort in her grief for thee,
Who shall yet banish from the pleasant place
The baser sort, and all their ill bred race.
I hope to see his hopeful Son to stand
In's father's stead, and all his own command.
I hope to see the Mother, in old age,
Rejoice to see each of her sons a sage.
I hope to see the Daughters plant the plains
With pleasant prospects of heroic swains.
I hope to see the tenants put in mind
How once the father was to them so kind:
When as the Son improves what he began,
And proves the wisest and the bravest man.
Die with your body? O! forbid that I
Should more survive, when once your fame is dead;
But why should I think it can ever fade?
Your fame shall live in your sweet progenie,
Your Consort's comfort in her grief for thee,
Who shall yet banish from the pleasant place
The baser sort, and all their ill bred race.
I hope to see his hopeful Son to stand
In's father's stead, and all his own command.
I hope to see the Mother, in old age,
Rejoice to see each of her sons a sage.
I hope to see the Daughters plant the plains
With pleasant prospects of heroic swains.
I hope to see the tenants put in mind
How once the father was to them so kind:
When as the Son improves what he began,
And proves the wisest and the bravest man.
Hail, gentle youth, may all the stars conspire
To raise in thee a noble gen'rous fire;
Far to outstrip thy honest ancient Sire.
To raise in thee a noble gen'rous fire;
Far to outstrip thy honest ancient Sire.
| Poems on several subjects | |