And o'er the cheek of Sorrow throw
A melancholy grace;
While Hope prolongs our happier hour
Or deepest shades, that dimly lour
And blacken round our weary way,
Gilds with a gleam of distant day.
Still, where rosy Pleasure leads,
See a kindred Grief pursue;
Behind the steps that Misery treads,
Approaching Comfort view:
The hues of bliss more brightly glow,
Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe,
And blended form, with artful strife,
The strength and harmony of life.
See the wretch, that long has tost
On the thorny bed of pain,
At length repair his vigour lost,
And breathe and walk again :
The meanest floweret of the vale,
The simplest note that swells the gale,
The common sun, the air, the skies,
To him are opening Paradise.
How swiftly glide the fleeting years !
Nor virtue, piety, nor tears,
Their rapid course can stay;
Time blasts, alas! the fairest face;
Death hastens on with steady pace,
To summon us away.
He mocks the feeble pow'rs of man,
Nor all the richest treasures can
Protract the final doom:
The rich, the poor, the great, the small,
Must yield obedience to his call,
And fill alike the tomb.
What though we shun the stormy sea!
What though, where thund'ring cannons play,
From Death the coward flies?
Death close pursues, a ruthless foe,
And, where he least expects the blow,
In bed the dastard dies.
Then must we leave those darling joys,
Our tender wife, our prattling boys,
Which form'd our bliss before!
All must, at last, from earth retreat;
Our stately house, our peaceful seat,
Shall know us then no more.
The waving wood, the shady grove,
With all the scenes of social love,
We must for ever leave;
And while we moulder into earth,
Our sprightlier heirs, with wanton mirth,
Shall riot o'er our grave.
ON THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF
PEMBROKE.-Ben Jonson.
UNDERNEATH this sable hearse
Lies the subject of all verse,
Sydney's sister, Pembroke's mother-
Death, ere thou hast slain another,
Fair, and wise, and good as she,
Time shall throw his dart at thee.
ON MR. CRAGGS.-Pope.
STATESMAN, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere,
In action faithful, and in honour clear!
Who broke no promise, serv'd no private end;
Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend!
Ennobled by himself, by all approv❜d,
Prais'd, wept, and honour'd by the Muse he lov'd.
ON MRS. MASON.-Rev. W. Mason.
TAKE, sacred earth, all that my soul holds dear,
Take that best gift which Heaven so lately gave!
To Bristol's fount I bore with trembling care
Her faded form; she bow'd to taste the wave,
And died! Does youth, does beauty read the line?
Does sympathetic fear their breast alarm?
Speak, dead Maria, breathe a strain divine;
E'en from the tomb thou shalt have pow'r to charm.
Bid them be chaste, be innocent like thee,
Bid them in duty's path as meekly move;
And if so fair, from vanity as free,
As firm in friendship, and as fond in love,
Tell them, tho' 'tis an awful thing to die,
'Twas e'en to thee;-yet the dread path once trod, Heav'n lifts its everlasting portals high,
And bids the pure in heart behold their GoD.
ON AN INFANT.-Rev. Samuel Westley.
BENEATH a sleeping infant lies,
To earth whose body lent,
More glorious shall hereafter rise,
But not more innocent.
When the archangel's trump shall blow,
And souls to bodies join,
Many shall wish their lives below
Had been as short as thine !
BY A GENTLEMAN TO THE MEMORY OF HIS LADY.
FAREWELL, my best belov'd! whose heav'nly mind,
Genius and virtue, strength with softness join'd,
Devotion undebas'd by pride or art,
With meek simplicity and joy of heart;
Tho' sprightly gentle, tho' polite sincere,
And only to thyself a judge severe ;
Unblam'd, unequall'd in each sphere of life,
The tenderest daughter, sister, parent, wife;
In thee, their patroness, th' afflicted lost;
Thy friends, their pattern, ornament, and boast;
And I-but ah, can words my loss declare,
Or paint th' extremes of transport and despair!
O thou, beyond what verse or speech can tell,
My guide, my friend, my best belov'd!-Farewell!
WHEN Sorrow weeps o'er Virtue's sacred dust,
Our tears become us, and our grief is just:
Such were the tears he shed, who grateful pays
This last sad tribute of his love and praise;
Who mourns the best of wives and friends combin'd,
Where female softness met a manly mind;
Mourns, but not murmurs, sighs, but not despairs;
Feels as a man, but as a Christian bears.
ON MRS. CLARKE.-Gray.
Lo! where this silent marble weeps,
A friend, a wife, a mother sleeps:
A heart, within whose sacred cell
The peaceful virtues loved to dwell.
Affection warm, and faith sincere,
And soft humanity were there :
In agony, in death resigned,
She felt the wound she left behind.
Her infant image, here below,
Sits smiling on a father's woe:
Whom what awaits, while yet he strays
Along the lonely vale of days?
A pang, to secret sorrow dear;
A sigh; an unavailing tear;
"Till time shall ev'ry grief remove,
With life, with memory, and with love.
ON THE REV. T. CHAMBERLAYNE.
"Go, feed My lambs," the heavenly Shepherd cried, "Go, feed My sheep," again that voice replied; Firm to his trust, a servant here is laid,
Who heard the tender precept, and obeyed.
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