Is there no bright reversion in the sky, Why bade ye else, ye Pow'rs! her soul aspire And sep'rate from their kindred dregs below; Nor left one virtue to redeem her race. But thou, false guardian of a charge too good, Thou, mean deserter of thy brother's blood! See on these ruby lips the trembling breath, These cheeks, now fading at the blast of death Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before, And those love-darting eyes must roll no more, Thus if eternal Justice rules the ball, Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall: On all the line a sudden vengeance waits, And frequent herses shall besiege your gates; There passengers shall stand, and pointing say, (While the long fun'rals blacken all the way) Lo! these were they, whose souls the Furies steel'd, And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield. The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day! By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd, To midnight dances, and the public show? Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb? Yet shall thy grave with rising flow'rs be dress'd, And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast: There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow, There the first roses, of the year shall blow; While Angels with their silver wings o'ershade The ground, now sacred by thy reliques made. So peaceful, rests without a stone, a name, What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame, How lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot; A heap of dust alone remains of thee, 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be ! Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung, Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue, Ev'n he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays, Shall shortly want, the gen'rous tear he pays; Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part, And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart Life's idle bus'ness at one grasp be o'er, The Muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more! PHILEMON, AN ELEGY. Where shade yon yews the church-yard's lonely bourn, With faultering step, absorb'd in thought profound, Philemon wends in solitude to mourn, While evening pours her deep'ning glooms around. Loud shrieks the blast, the sleety torrent drives, Wide spreads the tempest's desolating power; To grief alone Philemon reckless lives, No rolling peal he heeds, cold blast, nor shower. For this the date that stampt his partner's doom; No sighs he breath'd, for anguish rived his breast; Now time has calm'd, not cur'd Philemon's woe, And still each year's collected sorrows flow, STANZAS. O lay me where my child is laid, When peace and joy no more remain, And gathering glooms the scene o'ercast ; O! lay me where my child is laid, |