On Lady Charles Beauclerc's Death

Nor empty are the honours that we pay
To the departed; our own hearts are fill'd
Brimfull with grateful reminiscences;
Compassion is excited; the most stern
Relent; and better even the best return.
Such, Teresita, were my thoughts, all day,
All night, when thou wert carried to thy home
Eternal, amid tears thou couldst not share,
Thither where none, not even of joy, are shed.
Surrounded with God's own serenity
Is that pure brow rais'd humbly to his throne.
Leaving thy home and those most dear awhile,
Thou, a few months before, wouldst have consoled
My sufferings: Who shall now console thy sire's?
Proud not of victories won in southern climes
And equal laws administer'd, but proud
Of virtues he implanted in his child.

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