 | The Works of Mr. John Oldham |  |
On the Death of Mr. John Oldham.
Heark! is it only my prophetick Fear,
Or some Death's sad Alarum that I hear?
By all my Doubts 'tis Oldham's fatal Knell;
It rings aloud, eternally farewel:
Farewell thou mighty Genius of our Isle,
Whose forward Parts made all our Nation smile,
In whom both Wit and Knowledge did conspire,
And Nature gaz'd as if she did admire
How such few years such Learning could acquire:
Nay seem'd concern'd that we should hardly find
So sharp a Pen, and so serene a Mind.
Oh then lament; let each distracted Breast
With universal Sorrow be possest.
Mourn, mourn, ye Muses, and your Songs give o'er;
For now your lov'd Adonis is no more.
He whom ye tutor'd from his Infant-years,
Cold, pale and ghastly as the Grave appears:
He whom ye bath'd in your lov'd murmuring Stream,
Your daily pleasure, and your mighty Theme
Is now no more; the Youth, the Youth is dead,
The mighty Soul of Poetry is fled;
Fled e'er his Worth or Merit was half known;
No sooner seen, but in a Moment gone:
Like to some tender Plant, which rear'd with Care,
At length becomes most fragrant, and most fair;
Long does it thrive, and long its Pride maintain,
Esteem'd secure from Thunder, Storm or Rain;
Then comes a Blast, and all the Work is vain.
Or some Death's sad Alarum that I hear?
By all my Doubts 'tis Oldham's fatal Knell;
It rings aloud, eternally farewel:
Farewell thou mighty Genius of our Isle,
Whose forward Parts made all our Nation smile,
In whom both Wit and Knowledge did conspire,
And Nature gaz'd as if she did admire
How such few years such Learning could acquire:
Nay seem'd concern'd that we should hardly find
So sharp a Pen, and so serene a Mind.
Oh then lament; let each distracted Breast
With universal Sorrow be possest.
Mourn, mourn, ye Muses, and your Songs give o'er;
For now your lov'd Adonis is no more.
He whom ye tutor'd from his Infant-years,
Cold, pale and ghastly as the Grave appears:
He whom ye bath'd in your lov'd murmuring Stream,
Your daily pleasure, and your mighty Theme
Is now no more; the Youth, the Youth is dead,
The mighty Soul of Poetry is fled;
Fled e'er his Worth or Merit was half known;
No sooner seen, but in a Moment gone:
Like to some tender Plant, which rear'd with Care,
At length becomes most fragrant, and most fair;
Esteem'd secure from Thunder, Storm or Rain;
Then comes a Blast, and all the Work is vain.
But Oh! my Friend, must we no more rehearse
Thy equal Numbers in thy pleasing Verse?
In Love how soft, in Satyr how severe?
In Passion moving, and in Rage austere!
Virgil in Judgment, Ovid in Delight,
An easie Thought with a Meonian Flight;
Horace in Sweetness, Juvenal in Rage,
And even Biblis must each Heart engage!
Just in his Praises, and what most desire,
Wou'd flatter none for Greatness, Love or Hire;
Humble, though courted, and what's rare to see,
Of wondrous Worth, yet wondrous Modesty.
So far from Ostentation he did seem,
That he was meanest in his own Esteem.
Alas, young man, why wert thou made to be
At once our Glory and our Misery?
Our Misery in losing thee is more
Than could thy Life our Glory be before:
For shou'd a Soul celestial Joys possess,
And straight be banish'd from that Happiness,
Oh, where would be its Pleasure? where it's Gain?
The Bliss once tasted but augments the Pain:
So having once so great a Prize in thee,
How much the heavier must our Sorrows be?
For if such Flights were in thy younger Days,
What if thou'dst liv'd, O what had been thy Praise?
Eternal Wreaths of never-dying Bays:
But those are due already to thy Name,
Which stands enroll'd in the Records of Fame;
And though thy great Remains to Ashes turn,
With lasting Praises we'll supply thy Urn,
Which like Sepulchral Lamps shall ever burn.
Thy equal Numbers in thy pleasing Verse?
In Love how soft, in Satyr how severe?
In Passion moving, and in Rage austere!
Virgil in Judgment, Ovid in Delight,
An easie Thought with a Meonian Flight;
Horace in Sweetness, Juvenal in Rage,
And even Biblis must each Heart engage!
Just in his Praises, and what most desire,
Wou'd flatter none for Greatness, Love or Hire;
Humble, though courted, and what's rare to see,
Of wondrous Worth, yet wondrous Modesty.
So far from Ostentation he did seem,
That he was meanest in his own Esteem.
Alas, young man, why wert thou made to be
At once our Glory and our Misery?
Our Misery in losing thee is more
Than could thy Life our Glory be before:
For shou'd a Soul celestial Joys possess,
And straight be banish'd from that Happiness,
Oh, where would be its Pleasure? where it's Gain?
The Bliss once tasted but augments the Pain:
So having once so great a Prize in thee,
How much the heavier must our Sorrows be?
For if such Flights were in thy younger Days,
What if thou'dst liv'd, O what had been thy Praise?
Eternal Wreaths of never-dying Bays:
But those are due already to thy Name,
Which stands enroll'd in the Records of Fame;
With lasting Praises we'll supply thy Urn,
Which like Sepulchral Lamps shall ever burn.
But hold! methinks, great Shade, I see thee rove
Through the smooth Path of Plenty, Peace and Love;
Where Ben. salutes thee first, o'erjoy'd to see
The Youth that sung his Fame and Memory:
Great Spencer next, with all the learned Train,
Do greet thee in a Panegyrick Strain:
Adonis is the Joy of all the Plain.
Through the smooth Path of Plenty, Peace and Love;
Where Ben. salutes thee first, o'erjoy'd to see
The Youth that sung his Fame and Memory:
Great Spencer next, with all the learned Train,
Do greet thee in a Panegyrick Strain:
Adonis is the Joy of all the Plain.
Tho. Andrews.
| The Works of Mr. John Oldham | |