 | Poems on several occasions |  |
AN ELEGY ON MR. CHARLES WESLEY,
SUPPOSED DECEASED.
Fallen is the youth that was so good,
And corn now grows where Troy-town stood.
I wail in melancholy rhyme
A youth departed in his prime.
His favourite fair ones all lament him,
From Mrs. Prat to Nanny Bentham.
The lads are all in the same tune:
“Pity poor Charles should die so soon!”
Was it for this, through cares and fears,
For more than ten long tedious years,
Pommell'd in college and in school,
He bore the doctor's iron rule?
Was it for this,—to die at last,
Soon as his captainship was past;
Not to be heard of now, or seen,
Unless his ghost glides o'er the green,
Who used alive to' employ his tongue
In singing of the fairy song?
And corn now grows where Troy-town stood.
I wail in melancholy rhyme
A youth departed in his prime.
562
From Mrs. Prat to Nanny Bentham.
The lads are all in the same tune:
“Pity poor Charles should die so soon!”
Was it for this, through cares and fears,
For more than ten long tedious years,
Pommell'd in college and in school,
He bore the doctor's iron rule?
Was it for this,—to die at last,
Soon as his captainship was past;
Not to be heard of now, or seen,
Unless his ghost glides o'er the green,
Who used alive to' employ his tongue
In singing of the fairy song?
What might we well have hoped to see
From such a hopeful one as he!
Books, poems, letters, and what not?
And, sure, a pretty hand he wrote.
He might have held forth, when a priest,
As well as Henley can, at least.
But now our golden hopes must fail,
Since there's no fence against a flail,
Nothing from death can refuge give,
We die as sure as we're alive.
From such a hopeful one as he!
Books, poems, letters, and what not?
And, sure, a pretty hand he wrote.
He might have held forth, when a priest,
As well as Henley can, at least.
But now our golden hopes must fail,
Since there's no fence against a flail,
Nothing from death can refuge give,
We die as sure as we're alive.
563
Fancy his voice and form supplies,
Which ne'er must bless mine ears and eyes.
His back—methinks I see it yet—
A quarter-staff might well befit.
His legs, that seem'd not made to skip,
Would leap; O dear, how they would leap!
His countenance sweet he could disguise,
And wink and goggle with his eyes;
Sometimes a leer of archness throw,
And raise aloft his shaggy brow.
How would he show in tunes his skill
In warbling an Italian trill!
How would he Rhodes on errands send,
Or break the lamp of Dr. Freind,
Or maul the Whigs with libels keen,
Or at a turncoat show his spleen,
Or still poor Bradshaw handle worse,
Spit in his face, and call him “horse!”
In vain I count his virtues o'er;
He's dead,—and so I'll say no more
For what, alas!—ah! what, indeed?—
Is to be done or to be said?
Which ne'er must bless mine ears and eyes.
His back—methinks I see it yet—
A quarter-staff might well befit.
His legs, that seem'd not made to skip,
Would leap; O dear, how they would leap!
His countenance sweet he could disguise,
And wink and goggle with his eyes;
Sometimes a leer of archness throw,
And raise aloft his shaggy brow.
How would he show in tunes his skill
In warbling an Italian trill!
How would he Rhodes on errands send,
Or break the lamp of Dr. Freind,
Or maul the Whigs with libels keen,
Or at a turncoat show his spleen,
Or still poor Bradshaw handle worse,
Spit in his face, and call him “horse!”
In vain I count his virtues o'er;
He's dead,—and so I'll say no more
For what, alas!—ah! what, indeed?—
Is to be done or to be said?
| Poems on several occasions | |