Like some well-fashioned arch thy patience stood, SONG. By a MAN. Virtue, on herself relying, WOMAN Speaker. Yet, ah! what terrors frown'd upon her fate Death with its formidable band, Fever, and pain, and pale consumptive care, Nor did the cruel ravagers design To finish all their efforts at a blow; But, mischievously slow, They robb'd the relic and defaced the shrine. Despairing of relief, Her weeping children round, Beheld each hour Death's growing power, And trembled as he frown'd. As helpless friends who view from shore The labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar, While winds and waves their wishes cross, They stood, while hope and comfort fail, The inevitable loss. Relentless tyrant, at thy call How do the good, the virtuous fall! Goldsmith. Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most engage, Yet let that wisdom, urged by her example, Let us prize death as the best gift of nature; As a safe inn, where weary travellers, When they have journey'd through a world of cares, May put off life and be at rest for ever. Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sables, May oft distract us with their sad solemnity: The preparation is the executioner. Death, when unmask'd, shows me a friendly face, And is a terror only at a distance; For as the line of life conducts me on To Death's great court, the prospect seems more fair. 'Tis Nature's kind retreat, that's always open To take us in when we have drain'd the cup Of life, or worn our days to wretchedness. In that secure, serene retreat, Where all the humble, all the great, Promiscuously recline; Where wildly huddled to the eye, The beggar's pouch and prince's purple lie, May every bliss be thine. And, ah! blest spirit, wheresoe'er thy flight, May cherubs welcome their expected guest, May saints with songs receive thee to their rest, May peace, that claim'd while here thy warmest love, May blissful, endless peace, be thine above! SONG. By a WOMAN. Lovely, lasting Peace below, Heav'nly born, and bred on high, WOMAN Speaker. Our vows are heard! long, long to mortal eyes, Where modest want and patient sorrow dwell; Want pass'd for merit at her door, Unseen the modest were supplied, Her constant pity fed the poor, Then only poor, indeed, the day she died. And, oh! for this, while sculpture decks thy shrine, And art exhausts profusion round, The tribute of a tear be mine, A simple song, a sigh profound. There Faith shall come, a pilgrim grey, To bless the tomb that wraps thy clay; To dwell a weeping hermit there. Truth, Fortitude, and Friendship shall agree, AIR. CHORUS. Let us, let all the world agree, Fast by that shore where Thames' translucent stream, Where, splendid as the youthful poet's dream, The good old sire, unconscious of decay, CHORUS. Ye shady walks, ye waving greens, Ye nodding towers, ye fairy scenes, Let all your echoes now deplore, and weep. That she who formed your beauties is no more. First of the train the patient rustic came, "And where," he cried, "shall now my babes have bread, Or how shall age support its feeble fire? No lord will take me now, my vigour fled, Nor can my strength perform what they require; Each grudging master keeps the labourer bare, My noble mistress thought not so: Unseen, though constant, used to flow, And as my strength decay'd, her bounty grew.” In decent dress and coarsely clean, The pious matron next was seen, Clasp'd in her hand a godly book was borne, That decent dress, that holy guide, 66 And ah!" she cries, all woe-begone, "What now remains for me? Oh! where shall weeping want repair, Too late in life for me to ask, She still relieved, nor sought my praise, But every day her name I'll bless, SONG. By a WOMAN. |