Miscellanies in Prose and Verse By Mrs. Catherine Jemmat |
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An Elegy on the much-lamented Death of the Right Reverend Father in God, THOMAS, Lord Bishop of SODOR and MAN.
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 | Miscellanies in Prose and Verse |  |
An Elegy on the much-lamented Death of the Right Reverend Father in God, THOMAS, Lord Bishop of SODOR and MAN.
By a Gentlewoman of the Isle of Man, in the Year 1755.
A chilling damp invades my trembling heart,
Steals thro' each vein, and sickens ev'ry part!
The morning weeps, and wears a sullen face:
Sure Nature feels some sudden sad distress!
Dejected looks, and deep corroding care,
Display the sable ensigns of despair.
What mean these presages?—Hark! the bell—
It sounds a solemn, slow departing knell.
Ah! hold, my boding heart—is SODOR dead!
Is Mona's guardian-angel from her fled?
Yes, his pure active soul has took its flight,
From these dark regions to the realms of light;
There tunes his voice with angels sacred strains,
And soars sublime above the lucid plains.
Ah! hapless Mona, long shalt thou lament
Thy Parent, Patriot, Prelate, from thee rent.
No balmy hope remains to heal thy wound,
For, ah! what pastor can like him be found?
Revolving suns shall light a thousand years,
Ere such a phœnix in the world appears.
Steals thro' each vein, and sickens ev'ry part!
The morning weeps, and wears a sullen face:
Sure Nature feels some sudden sad distress!
Dejected looks, and deep corroding care,
Display the sable ensigns of despair.
What mean these presages?—Hark! the bell—
It sounds a solemn, slow departing knell.
Ah! hold, my boding heart—is SODOR dead!
Is Mona's guardian-angel from her fled?
Yes, his pure active soul has took its flight,
From these dark regions to the realms of light;
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And soars sublime above the lucid plains.
Ah! hapless Mona, long shalt thou lament
Thy Parent, Patriot, Prelate, from thee rent.
No balmy hope remains to heal thy wound,
For, ah! what pastor can like him be found?
Revolving suns shall light a thousand years,
Ere such a phœnix in the world appears.
Weep on, ye hapless orphans—Now you may;
He's gone who us'd to wipe your tears away.
And you, pale sons of penury, deplore
The liberal hand that gave you all his store,
And thought that all too little to be giv'n,
For he laid up no treasure but in heav'n.
For you the yellow'd harvest crown'd his field,
To you his snowy flocks their fleeces yield:
With undissembl'd sorrow you will mourn;
'Till now you ne'er were wretched nor forlorn.
To all degrees his healing hand he lent,
Gave to their bodies ease, their souls content.
As heav'n's benevolence is unconfin'd,
All shar'd th' immortal treasures of his mind,
An universal friend to all mankind.
Oh! Bishop's-Court, now at thy hallow'd gate
No hospitable harbinger doth wait,
To welcome in the tired hungry guest,
Where elegance and temperance crown'd the feast.
Near sixty autumns his paternal hand
The crosier held in this late happy land.
He's gone who us'd to wipe your tears away.
And you, pale sons of penury, deplore
The liberal hand that gave you all his store,
And thought that all too little to be giv'n,
For he laid up no treasure but in heav'n.
For you the yellow'd harvest crown'd his field,
To you his snowy flocks their fleeces yield:
With undissembl'd sorrow you will mourn;
'Till now you ne'er were wretched nor forlorn.
To all degrees his healing hand he lent,
Gave to their bodies ease, their souls content.
36
All shar'd th' immortal treasures of his mind,
An universal friend to all mankind.
Oh! Bishop's-Court, now at thy hallow'd gate
No hospitable harbinger doth wait,
To welcome in the tired hungry guest,
Where elegance and temperance crown'd the feast.
Near sixty autumns his paternal hand
The crosier held in this late happy land.
Tell me, ye learned, what enraptur'd flight
Can wing its way to his superior height?
His merit would exhaust the florid store
Of elocution, and make rhetoric poor.
His learn'd and pious works demonstrate best
What holy ardour glow'd within his breast;
Diffusing round the globe its radiant beam,
Remotest India bless'd the sacred flame.
His reverend looks had sweetness that might win
Obdurate sinners from their darling sin:
Inspiring Virtue, with her charming grace,
We saw her lovely image in his face.
When he declaim'd, Vice hung its guilty head,
Before him Ignorace and Error fled.
Divine Persuasion dwelt upon his tongue,
Dispensing wisdom to th' admiring throng,
With so much energy, such heav'nly art,
He drew compunction from the hardest heart.
With sanctity of manners richly fraught,
His life evinc'd the doctrine that he taught.
Fourscore and ten full years this vale he trod,
Still fervent in the service of his God.
Away, fond heralds, with your mould'ring praise,
His glorious deeds his monuments shall raise.
T'embellish latest time his fame shall live,
And to worlds to come a bright example give.
He, lov'd, lost patriarch, Mona still shall mourn,
And with her filial tears bedew his hallow'd urn.
Can wing its way to his superior height?
His merit would exhaust the florid store
Of elocution, and make rhetoric poor.
His learn'd and pious works demonstrate best
What holy ardour glow'd within his breast;
Diffusing round the globe its radiant beam,
Remotest India bless'd the sacred flame.
His reverend looks had sweetness that might win
Obdurate sinners from their darling sin:
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We saw her lovely image in his face.
When he declaim'd, Vice hung its guilty head,
Before him Ignorace and Error fled.
Divine Persuasion dwelt upon his tongue,
Dispensing wisdom to th' admiring throng,
With so much energy, such heav'nly art,
He drew compunction from the hardest heart.
With sanctity of manners richly fraught,
His life evinc'd the doctrine that he taught.
Fourscore and ten full years this vale he trod,
Still fervent in the service of his God.
Away, fond heralds, with your mould'ring praise,
His glorious deeds his monuments shall raise.
T'embellish latest time his fame shall live,
And to worlds to come a bright example give.
He, lov'd, lost patriarch, Mona still shall mourn,
And with her filial tears bedew his hallow'd urn.
| Miscellanies in Prose and Verse | |