Classic Poem

Tho' rude the Verse, tho' long withheld the Lays,
Gloom'd with thy Loss, unequal to thy Praise,
Bright Saint! O yet be thine, these weeping Strains,
A last sad Tribute to thy lov'd Remains.
Vain Grief! — nor all our Efforts can suffice
To wail with due Concern thy mourn'd Demise.
If Verse cou'd have thy hasty Doom delay'd,
Or back to Earth cou'd charm thy parted Shade,
If Sighs or Tears thy valued Life cou'd save,
Dissolve thy Fetters, or unseal thy Grave,
What Muse that knew thy Worth would Silence keep?
What Breast refuse to groan? or Eye to weep?

But be the Voice of Sorrow now supprest;
Calm as when living may her Ashes rest:
Let our deep Grief becoming Silence tell,
Or Language only boast she died so well.
With no black Shade, their Lustre to oppose,
Her Virtues set, unclouded as they rose.
To one fixt Point did all her Actions tend,
This mark'd the Means , and this secur'd the End ;
Taught her clear Life its even Course to run ,
With Honour ended , as with Truth begun ;
The finish'd Wife , the matchless Mother form'd,
And with Heav'n's purest Zeal the Christian warm'd.

Hers was th' expanded Soul , the lib'ral Mind ,
Foe to no Party, Friend to all Mankind;
The human Heart, to no Resentment prone,
Still each one's Faults forgiving, but her own :
Her own! so few, so small, as serv'd to show
Perfection, only , is not ours below.

O brightest Glory of my happier Days!
Once cheer'd, once blest by thy indulging Rays,
Who deign'd, untainted with the Pride of Power,
To grace with free Converse my humble Hour;
In whom my Hopes, encourag'd to depend,
Still found the Patron , still might boast the Friend ,
Boast ev'n the Parent in thy watchful Aid,
When in Youth's Flower a drooping Orphan made;
Who still'd my Fears, bid all my Gloom depart,
Try'd Help , when Want and Pain besieg'd my Heart
O if regardful now! while blest above;
If conscious to the Strains of duteous Love,
While the proud Lays thy kind Regard disclose,
And my torn Bosom throbs with grateful Woes;
While vext with frequent Storms, half lost to Life,
O'erwhelm'd, unfriended in a World of Strife;
Forgive amid thy Joys, O ever dear!
If my fond Frailty drops the erring Tear.
From my swell'd Breast will break th' impetuous Moan,
Gush the pent Flood, and burst th' impassion'd Groan.
Forbid not Sorrows that are Nature's Claim;
What suits the Friend, the Parent's reverenc'd Name,
At least are to thy sacred Manes due,
For both I honour'd, both have lost in you. —

— Yet, tho' in Bliss, above our Sorrows rais'd,
Tho' too exalted to be mourn'd or prais'd,
The Fame my Muse would give , do thou bestow ,
And o'er thy Marble let my Laurels grow.