A collection of original poems and translations By John Whaley |
 |
At seeing
Archbishop Williams's Monument in Carnarvonshire. |
 | A collection of original poems and translations |  |
214
At seeing Archbishop Williams's Monument in Carnarvonshire.
By the same.
In that remote and solitary Place,
Which the Seas wash, and circling Hills embrace,
Where those lone Walls amid the Groves arise,
All that remains of thee, fam'd Williams, lies.
Thither, sequester'd Shade, Creation's Nook,
The wand'ring Muse her pensive Journey took,
Curious to trace the Statesman to his Home,
And moralize at Leisure o'er his Tomb:
She came not, with the Pilgrim, Tears to shed,
Mutter a Vow, or trifle with a Bead,
But such a Sadness did her Thoughts employ,
As lives within the Neighbourhood of Joy.
Reflecting much upon the mighty Shade,
His Glories, and his Miseries, she said:
Which the Seas wash, and circling Hills embrace,
Where those lone Walls amid the Groves arise,
All that remains of thee, fam'd Williams, lies.
Thither, sequester'd Shade, Creation's Nook,
The wand'ring Muse her pensive Journey took,
Curious to trace the Statesman to his Home,
And moralize at Leisure o'er his Tomb:
She came not, with the Pilgrim, Tears to shed,
Mutter a Vow, or trifle with a Bead,
But such a Sadness did her Thoughts employ,
As lives within the Neighbourhood of Joy.
Reflecting much upon the mighty Shade,
His Glories, and his Miseries, she said:
215
“How poor the Lot of the once honour'd Dead!
Perhaps the Dust is Williams', that we tread.
The learn'd, ambitious, politick, and great,
Statesman, and Prelate, this alas! thy Fate.
Cou'd not thy Lincoln yield her Pastor room,
Cou'd not thy York supply thee with a Tomb?
Was it for this thy lofty Genius soar'd,
Caress'd by Monarchs and by Crouds ador'd?
For this, thy Hand o'er Rivals cou'd prevail,
Grasping by Turns the Crosier and the Seal?
Who dar'd on Laud's meridian Pow'r to frown,
And on aspiring Buckingham look down.
This thy gay Morn,—but e'er the Day decline
Clouds gather, and Adversity is thine:
Doom'd to behold thy Country's fierce Alarms,
What had thy trembling Age to do with Arms?
Thy Lands dragoon'd, thy Palaces in Dust,
Why was thy Life protracted to be curst?
Thy King in Chains,—thyself by lawless Might
Strip't of all Pow'r, and exil'd from thy Right.
Perhaps the Dust is Williams', that we tread.
The learn'd, ambitious, politick, and great,
Statesman, and Prelate, this alas! thy Fate.
Cou'd not thy Lincoln yield her Pastor room,
Cou'd not thy York supply thee with a Tomb?
Was it for this thy lofty Genius soar'd,
Caress'd by Monarchs and by Crouds ador'd?
For this, thy Hand o'er Rivals cou'd prevail,
Grasping by Turns the Crosier and the Seal?
Who dar'd on Laud's meridian Pow'r to frown,
And on aspiring Buckingham look down.
This thy gay Morn,—but e'er the Day decline
Clouds gather, and Adversity is thine:
Doom'd to behold thy Country's fierce Alarms,
What had thy trembling Age to do with Arms?
Thy Lands dragoon'd, thy Palaces in Dust,
Why was thy Life protracted to be curst?
Thy King in Chains,—thyself by lawless Might
Strip't of all Pow'r, and exil'd from thy Right.
216
A while the venerable Hero stood,
And stemm'd with quiv'ring Limbs the boist'rous Flood;
At length, o'er-match'd by Injuries and Time,
Stole from the World, and sought his native Clime.
And stemm'd with quiv'ring Limbs the boist'rous Flood;
At length, o'er-match'd by Injuries and Time,
Stole from the World, and sought his native Clime.
Cambria for him with Moans her Region fills;
She wept his Downfal from a thousand Hills:
Tender embrac'd her Prelate tho' undone,
Stretch'd out the Mother Rocks to hide her Son:
Search'd, while alive, each Vale for his Repast,
And, when he died, receiv'd him in her Breast.
Envied Ambition! What are all thy Schemes,
But waking Misery, or pleasing Dreams,
Sliding and tottering on the Heights of State!
The Subject of this Verse declares thy Fate.
Great as he was, you see how small the Gain,
A Burial so obscure, a Muse so mean.
She wept his Downfal from a thousand Hills:
Tender embrac'd her Prelate tho' undone,
Stretch'd out the Mother Rocks to hide her Son:
Search'd, while alive, each Vale for his Repast,
And, when he died, receiv'd him in her Breast.
Envied Ambition! What are all thy Schemes,
But waking Misery, or pleasing Dreams,
Sliding and tottering on the Heights of State!
The Subject of this Verse declares thy Fate.
Great as he was, you see how small the Gain,
A Burial so obscure, a Muse so mean.
| A collection of original poems and translations | |