A Poem Dedicated to the Memory Of the late Learned and Eminent Mr. William Law Professor of Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh [by Robert Blair] |
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 | A Poem Dedicated to the Memory Of the late Learned and Eminent Mr. William Law |  |
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A POEM Dedicated to the MEMORY Of the late Learned and Eminent Mr. WILLIAM LAW,
Professor of Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh.
In Silence to suppress my Griefs I've try'd,
And keep within its Banks the swelling Tide;
But all in Vain: Unbidden Numbers flow;
Spite of my self, my Sorrows vocal grow.
This be my Plea,*****Nor thou, dear Shade, refuse
The well-meant Tribute of the willing Muse,
Who trembles at the Greatness of its Theme,
And fain would say what suits so high a Name.
And keep within its Banks the swelling Tide;
But all in Vain: Unbidden Numbers flow;
Spite of my self, my Sorrows vocal grow.
This be my Plea,*****Nor thou, dear Shade, refuse
The well-meant Tribute of the willing Muse,
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And fain would say what suits so high a Name.
Which, from the crouded Journal of thy Fame,
Which of thy many Titles shall I name?
For, like a gallant Prince, that wins a Crown,
By undisputed Right, before his own,
Variety thou hast: Our only Care
Is what to single out, and what forbear.
Which of thy many Titles shall I name?
For, like a gallant Prince, that wins a Crown,
By undisputed Right, before his own,
Variety thou hast: Our only Care
Is what to single out, and what forbear.
Tho' scrupulously just, yet not severe;
Tho' cautious, open, courteous, yet sincere;
Tho' Rev'rend, yet not magisterial;
Tho' intimate with few, yet lov'd by all;
Tho' deeply read, yet absolutely free,
From all the Stiffnesses of Pedantry:
Tho' circumspectly good, yet never sowre,
Pleasant with Innocence, and never more.
Religion worn by thee, attractive show'd,
And with its own unborrow'd Beauty glow'd:
Unlike the Biggot, from whose wat'ry Eyes
Ne'er Sunshine Broke, nor Smile was seen to rise,
Whose sickly Goodness lives upon Grimace,
And pleads a Merit from a blubber'd Face.
Thou kept thy Rayment for the tatter'd Poor,
And taught the Fatherless to know thy Door;
From griping Hunger set the Needy free,
That they were needy was enough to thee.
Tho' cautious, open, courteous, yet sincere;
Tho' Rev'rend, yet not magisterial;
Tho' intimate with few, yet lov'd by all;
Tho' deeply read, yet absolutely free,
From all the Stiffnesses of Pedantry:
Tho' circumspectly good, yet never sowre,
Pleasant with Innocence, and never more.
Religion worn by thee, attractive show'd,
And with its own unborrow'd Beauty glow'd:
Unlike the Biggot, from whose wat'ry Eyes
Ne'er Sunshine Broke, nor Smile was seen to rise,
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And pleads a Merit from a blubber'd Face.
Thou kept thy Rayment for the tatter'd Poor,
And taught the Fatherless to know thy Door;
From griping Hunger set the Needy free,
That they were needy was enough to thee.
Shy Fame to please, whilst others restless be,
Fame laid her Shyness by, and courted Thee;
And tho' thou bade the flatt'ring Thing give o'er,
Yet, in Return, she only woo'd thee more.
Fame laid her Shyness by, and courted Thee;
And tho' thou bade the flatt'ring Thing give o'er,
Yet, in Return, she only woo'd thee more.
How sweet thy Accents! and how mild thy Look?
What smiling Mirth was heard in all thou spoke!
Manhood and grizled Age were fond of thee,
And Youth it self sought thy Society.
The Ag'd thou taught, descended to the Young,
Clear'd up th' Irresolute, confirm'd the Strong;
To the perplex'd thy friendly Counsel lent,
And gently lifted up the Diffident;
Sigh'd with the Sorrowful, and bore a Part,
In all the Anguish of a bleeding Heart:
Reclaim'd the Headstrong, and, with sacred Skill,
Committed hallow'd Rapes upon the Will;
Sooth'd our Affections, and, with their Delight,
To gain our Actions, brib'd our Appetite.
What smiling Mirth was heard in all thou spoke!
Manhood and grizled Age were fond of thee,
And Youth it self sought thy Society.
The Ag'd thou taught, descended to the Young,
Clear'd up th' Irresolute, confirm'd the Strong;
To the perplex'd thy friendly Counsel lent,
And gently lifted up the Diffident;
Sigh'd with the Sorrowful, and bore a Part,
In all the Anguish of a bleeding Heart:
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Committed hallow'd Rapes upon the Will;
Sooth'd our Affections, and, with their Delight,
To gain our Actions, brib'd our Appetite.
Now who shall, with a Greatness like thy own,
Thy Pulpit dignify, and grace thy Gown?
Who with pathetick Energy like thine,
The Head enlighten, and the Heart refine?
Learn'd were thy Lectures, noble the Design,
The Language Roman, and the Action fine;
The Heads well rang'd, the Inferences clear,
And strong and solid thy Deductions were:
Thou mark'd the Bound'ries out, 'twixt Right and Wrong,
And show'd the Land-marks as thou went along.
Plain were thy Reasonings, or if perplext,
Thy Life was the best Comment on thy Text;
For if, in darker Points, we were deceiv'd,
'Twas only but observing how thou liv'd.
Thy Pulpit dignify, and grace thy Gown?
Who with pathetick Energy like thine,
The Head enlighten, and the Heart refine?
Learn'd were thy Lectures, noble the Design,
The Language Roman, and the Action fine;
The Heads well rang'd, the Inferences clear,
And strong and solid thy Deductions were:
Thou mark'd the Bound'ries out, 'twixt Right and Wrong,
And show'd the Land-marks as thou went along.
Plain were thy Reasonings, or if perplext,
Thy Life was the best Comment on thy Text;
For if, in darker Points, we were deceiv'd,
'Twas only but observing how thou liv'd.
Bewilder'd in the Greatness of thy Fame,
What shall the Muse, what next in Order name?
Which of thy social Qualities commend?
Whether of Husband, Father, or of Friend!
All these thou once possest, nor could we know
Which was the uppermost, so all wast thou.
So have I seen the many-colour'd Mead,
Brush'd by the Vernal Breeze, its Fragrance shed:
Tho' various Sweets the various Field exhal'd,
Yet could we not determine which prevail'd,
Nor this part Rose, That Honey-suckle call,
But a rich bloomy Aggregate of All.
What shall the Muse, what next in Order name?
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Whether of Husband, Father, or of Friend!
All these thou once possest, nor could we know
Which was the uppermost, so all wast thou.
So have I seen the many-colour'd Mead,
Brush'd by the Vernal Breeze, its Fragrance shed:
Tho' various Sweets the various Field exhal'd,
Yet could we not determine which prevail'd,
Nor this part Rose, That Honey-suckle call,
But a rich bloomy Aggregate of All.
And thou, the once glad Partner of his Bed,
But now by Sorrow's Weeds distinguished;
Whose busy Memory thy Grief supplies,
And calls up all thy Husband to thine Eyes;
Thou must not be forgot. How alter'd now!
How thick thy Tears? How fast thy Sorrows flow?
The well known Voice that cheer'd thee heretofore,
These soothing Accents, thou must hear no more.
Untold be all the tender Sighs thou drew,
When on thy Cheek he fetch'd a long Adieu.
Untold be all thy faithful Agonies,
At the last Languish of his closing Eyes:
For thou, and only such as thou, can tell
The killing Anguish of a last Farewel.
But now by Sorrow's Weeds distinguished;
Whose busy Memory thy Grief supplies,
And calls up all thy Husband to thine Eyes;
Thou must not be forgot. How alter'd now!
How thick thy Tears? How fast thy Sorrows flow?
The well known Voice that cheer'd thee heretofore,
These soothing Accents, thou must hear no more.
Untold be all the tender Sighs thou drew,
When on thy Cheek he fetch'd a long Adieu.
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At the last Languish of his closing Eyes:
For thou, and only such as thou, can tell
The killing Anguish of a last Farewel.
This Earth, yon Sun, and these blue tinctur'd Skies,
Thro' which it rolls, must have their Obsequies:
Pluck'd from their Orbits, shall the Planets fall,
And Smoke and Conflagration cover all.
What then is Man? the Creature of a Day,
By Moments spent, and Minutes born away.
Time, like a raging Torrent, hurries on
Scarce can we say It is, but that 'tis gone.
Thro' which it rolls, must have their Obsequies:
Pluck'd from their Orbits, shall the Planets fall,
And Smoke and Conflagration cover all.
What then is Man? the Creature of a Day,
By Moments spent, and Minutes born away.
Time, like a raging Torrent, hurries on
Scarce can we say It is, but that 'tis gone.
Whether, fair Shade! with social Spirits, tell,
(Whose Properties, thou once describ'd so well,)
Familiar now thou hearest them relate
The Rites and Methods of their happy State;
Or, if with Forms more fleet, thou roams abroad,
And views the great Magnificence of God,
Points out the Courses of the Orbs on High,
And counts the Silver Wonders of the Sky;
Or, if with glowing Seraphim, thou greets
Heav'n's King, and shoutest thro' the golden Streets,
That Crouds of white-rob'd Choristers display,
Marching in Triumph thro' the pearly Way?
(Whose Properties, thou once describ'd so well,)
Familiar now thou hearest them relate
The Rites and Methods of their happy State;
Or, if with Forms more fleet, thou roams abroad,
And views the great Magnificence of God,
Points out the Courses of the Orbs on High,
And counts the Silver Wonders of the Sky;
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Heav'n's King, and shoutest thro' the golden Streets,
That Crouds of white-rob'd Choristers display,
Marching in Triumph thro' the pearly Way?
Now thou art past beyond this World of Cares,
This weary Wilderness, and Vale of Tears,
Forgetting all thy Toils and Labours past,
No Gloom of Sorrow stains thy peaceful Breast.
Now 'midst Seraphick Splendours shalt thou dwell,
And be what only these pure Forms can tell
How cloudless now, and cheerful is thy Day?
What Joys, what Raptures, in thy Bosom play?
How bright the Sunshine, and how pure the Air!
There's no Difficulty of breathing there.
This weary Wilderness, and Vale of Tears,
Forgetting all thy Toils and Labours past,
No Gloom of Sorrow stains thy peaceful Breast.
Now 'midst Seraphick Splendours shalt thou dwell,
And be what only these pure Forms can tell
How cloudless now, and cheerful is thy Day?
What Joys, what Raptures, in thy Bosom play?
How bright the Sunshine, and how pure the Air!
There's no Difficulty of breathing there.
With willing Steps, a Pilgrim at thy Shrine,
To dew it with my Tears the Task be mine;
In lonely Dirge to murmur o'er thy Urn,
And with new-gather'd Flowers thy Turff adorn:
Nor shall thy Image from my Bosom part,
No Force shall rip thee from this bleeding Heart;
Oft shall I think o'er all I've lost in thee,
Nor shall Oblivion blot thy Memory:
But grateful Love its Energy express
(The Father's gone) now to the Fatherless.
To dew it with my Tears the Task be mine;
In lonely Dirge to murmur o'er thy Urn,
And with new-gather'd Flowers thy Turff adorn:
Nor shall thy Image from my Bosom part,
No Force shall rip thee from this bleeding Heart;
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Nor shall Oblivion blot thy Memory:
But grateful Love its Energy express
(The Father's gone) now to the Fatherless.
| A Poem Dedicated to the Memory Of the late Learned and Eminent Mr. William Law | |