By painful sickness long severely prest,
Here sinks, on Nature’s sacred lap of rest,
A friend, who, in a life too short, display’d
A mind in virtue bright, without one shade.
Hence with unusual grief is Fondness mov’d,
Hence more than Pity’s sighs for one belov’d;
Unshaken Honour sheds a manly tear,
And weeping Virtue stops, a mourner here.
TO THE MEMORY OF AN AMIABLE YOUTH,
OF GREAT PROMISE,
Whose afflicted Parents received the Intelligence of his having been drowned, at the very time when his Arrival was expected from abroad.
Dire were the horrors of that ruthless storm,
That for young Lycid form’d a wat’ry grave;
Oh! many wept to see his fainting form
Unaided sink beneath th’ o’erwhelming wave.
Ah! hapless youth! yet, tho’ the billowy waste
Has thus, with ruthless fury, snatch’d away
Thy various charms, thy genius, wit, and taste,
From those who fondly watch’d their rich display,—
Their cherish’d, lov’d, impression still
Mem’ry shall ride triumphant o’er the storm,
Shall shield thy gen’rous virtues from the blast,
And Fancy animate again thy form.
Yes, gentle youth! to her, tho’ little known,
Save by the rich effusions of thy lyre,
Th’ admiring Muse shall breathe a mournful tone,
And sounds of grief shall o’er the floods expire.
But, far more grateful to thy pensive shade,
Parental Fondness mourns her Lycid gone,
Lycid! who to her bosom oft convey’d
The liveliest joys to tend’rest feelings known.
For her the lustre of the dawning day,
With all its charms, no longer yields delight;
And silent sorrow marks its parting ray,
And saddens ev’ry vision of the night.
Oh! what ecstatic joys inspir’d her breast,
When, fast advancing to thy native shore,
She thought she saw thee in the bay at rest,
And now in fancy heard th’ approaching oar.
Oh! sad reverse! The dire delusive wind,
Which promis’d fair to bring thee to her breast,
Thy youthful honours to the wave consign’d,
And bore thy spirit to the realms of rest
Ah! had the song of ancient Bard been true,
Had Genius still the pow’r to soothe the storm,
Harmless had been each blast that round thee blew,
And safe and sacred, ’midst its rage, thy form.
What tho’ no marble urn thy relics hold,
Where grief at midnight hour may sit and sigh,
Like gem in amber, Fancy shall enfold
Thy relics in each wave that murmurs by.
Still shall she listen to thy glowing song,
And dwell with rapture on each vivid line,
Shall round thy lyre, neglected and unstrung,
Of sweetest flow’rs a fun’ral wreath entwine.
Ah! since thy tuneful song no more shall flow,
Nor here again thy op’ning virtues shine,
May those who, Lycid! lov’d thee living, know
To bear the sorrows of a loss like thine!