Poems and Plays by Mr. Jerningham. In Four Volumes ... The Ninth Edition |
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ON THE DEATH OF Mr. GARRICK, 1779. |
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 | Poems and Plays |  |
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ON THE DEATH OF Mr. GARRICK, 1779.
O hallow'd Censer! form'd by magic pow'r
To waft the incense of bright Avon's flow'r!
To waft the incense of bright Avon's flow'r!
Those airy forms, by glowing Truth design'd,
Which proudly issued from the Poet's mind,
No longer realis'd by Garrick's art,
Rush on the scene, and rouse the throbbing heart:
Ambition—prompt to seize th' imperial reins,
Who hospitality's pure rite profanes,
And sees (as wildly his strain'd eye-balls glare)
The fatal dagger trav'ling thro' the air:
Which proudly issued from the Poet's mind,
No longer realis'd by Garrick's art,
Rush on the scene, and rouse the throbbing heart:
Ambition—prompt to seize th' imperial reins,
Who hospitality's pure rite profanes,
And sees (as wildly his strain'd eye-balls glare)
The fatal dagger trav'ling thro' the air:
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Affection—who, half-daring, half-dismay'd,
Pursues with anxious steps a Father's shade:
As th' awful form stalks solemnly along,
Dread Expectation chills the circling throng:
Pursues with anxious steps a Father's shade:
As th' awful form stalks solemnly along,
Dread Expectation chills the circling throng:
Proud Cruelty—beside a languid lamp,
Who 'mid the stillness of the slumb'ring camp,
Amid the terrors of the lonesome night,
Sits deeply musing on the morrow's fight:
'Till worn with thought, with many a care opprest,
He drops the world, and wearies into rest:
In vain—Remorse now bids her serpents roll
In horrid volumes round his tortur'd soul:
Who 'mid the stillness of the slumb'ring camp,
Amid the terrors of the lonesome night,
Sits deeply musing on the morrow's fight:
'Till worn with thought, with many a care opprest,
He drops the world, and wearies into rest:
In vain—Remorse now bids her serpents roll
In horrid volumes round his tortur'd soul:
Old-age—who banish'd from his native throne,
Forc'd from the door so lately call'd his own,
Stands muttering to the foul and midnight air
(In beggar'd robes) the accents of Despair:
Unreverenc'd, shunn'd, rejected, and revil'd,
Stung at the mockery of an impious child,
And while the big tears trickle from his eyes,
I gave you all, the generous Father cries;
Let the fierce spirit of the tempest shed
The raging torrent on this hoary head;
The worst is past, let the loud thunder burst,
The drooping Sire is by a Daughter curst.
Forc'd from the door so lately call'd his own,
Stands muttering to the foul and midnight air
(In beggar'd robes) the accents of Despair:
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Stung at the mockery of an impious child,
And while the big tears trickle from his eyes,
I gave you all, the generous Father cries;
Let the fierce spirit of the tempest shed
The raging torrent on this hoary head;
The worst is past, let the loud thunder burst,
The drooping Sire is by a Daughter curst.
These were the scenes late held to Britain's view,
On which she gaz'd with transport ever new:
Endearing scenes! Ah! never to return,
While Genius sorrows o'er a Garrick's urn.
On which she gaz'd with transport ever new:
Endearing scenes! Ah! never to return,
While Genius sorrows o'er a Garrick's urn.
| Poems and Plays | |