 | A Collection of Original Poems |  |
154
SMART and DERRICK.
AN EPIGRAM.
Contradiction we find both in Derrick and Smart,Which manifests neither can write from the heart;
The latter, which readers may think some what odd,
Tho' devoted to wine, sings the glories of God:
The former lives sober, altho' no divine;
Yet merrily carrols the praises of wine;
Here let us a moment lay by our surprize;
And calmly survey where the preference lies:
Derrick foolishly revels in fancy'd delights;
But Smart, for the sake of a legacy, writes.
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On the Death of Dr. B***ll**ie, Physician to the English Army in Flanders;
Who died at Ghent, December 1743.
Hunc saltem accumulem donis, et fungar inani
Munere.
Virg.
Munere.
Virg.
O thou best skill'd my ev'ry grief t'assuage,
Frail, flatt'ring hope of my declining age!
Scarce had the Muse, who kindled at thy name,
Clapp'd her glad wings, exulting in thy fame,
Ere pensive, chearless, in complaining verse,
She pays her last sad tribute o'er thy herse.
Frail, flatt'ring hope of my declining age!
Scarce had the Muse, who kindled at thy name,
Clapp'd her glad wings, exulting in thy fame,
Ere pensive, chearless, in complaining verse,
She pays her last sad tribute o'er thy herse.
Ah! why to thee was ev'ry virtue giv'n?
Or why those virtues doom'd the scourge of heav'n?
Severely kind—indulgent to excess—
Deepest to wound, when most it seem'd to bless—
Gilding thy mid-day sun with fairest light,
To add new horrors to the brown of night—
Ah! never more shall worth like thine inspire
My feeble voice, and my neglected lyre!
Yet, doom'd to weep thy short, but shining span,
Still shall the Muse, nor more her fondness can,
Revere an angel—whom she lov'd, a man.
Or why those virtues doom'd the scourge of heav'n?
Severely kind—indulgent to excess—
Deepest to wound, when most it seem'd to bless—
Gilding thy mid-day sun with fairest light,
To add new horrors to the brown of night—
156
My feeble voice, and my neglected lyre!
Yet, doom'd to weep thy short, but shining span,
Still shall the Muse, nor more her fondness can,
Revere an angel—whom she lov'd, a man.
On the Same.
Occasioned by the Death of Mr. Pope, Anno 1744.
Round Ball**ll**ie's urn, while streaming eyes o'erflow,With social grief and tributary woe;
From melting sounds some comfort we receive;
A transient joy, which reason cannot give;
The Muse suspends the anguish we endure,
And sooths the heart-felt wound she cannot cure:
But, ah! in vain we ask the Muse's aid,
Since Harmony itself—with Pope is fled.
| A Collection of Original Poems | |