To the Memory of My Honoured Father Sir W. Young
How shall the Muse her feeble verse impart,
Or speak the anguish of a Daughter's heart?
But oh! ere Death may chill the conscious lay,
(Lest honour'd Truth should seem Oblivion's prey)
'Tis fit the Muse thy gentle kindness rear'd,
Should pay one tribute to a friend rever'd! —
Tho' stung with follies, and with grief opprest,
Thy gen'rous kindness glows within my breast! —
Thy sweet benevolence, thy friendly worth,
Thy glowing eloquence, thy courteous mirth,
Thy spotless honour, thy ingenuous truth,
Blends with the mem'ry dear of early youth;
And praise, sweet praise, when to thy virtues giv'n,
Shall sooth my soul, like music sent from Heav'n!
Or speak the anguish of a Daughter's heart?
But oh! ere Death may chill the conscious lay,
(Lest honour'd Truth should seem Oblivion's prey)
'Tis fit the Muse thy gentle kindness rear'd,
Should pay one tribute to a friend rever'd! —
Tho' stung with follies, and with grief opprest,
Thy gen'rous kindness glows within my breast! —
Thy sweet benevolence, thy friendly worth,
Thy glowing eloquence, thy courteous mirth,
Thy spotless honour, thy ingenuous truth,
Blends with the mem'ry dear of early youth;
And praise, sweet praise, when to thy virtues giv'n,
Shall sooth my soul, like music sent from Heav'n!
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