Foe to the futile manners of the proud, He chose an humble Virgin for his own; Her hand she gave, and with it gave her heart, With wit accomplish'd, and with virtue blest. Swift pass the hours; alas, to pass no more! Flown like the light clouds of a summer's day! One beauteous pledge the beauteous consort bore, The fatal gift forbade the giver's stay. Ere twice the sun perform'd his annual round, O'er Wife, and Child, and Parents clos'd the ground; The final home of man ordain'd to die. O cease at length, obtrusive Mem❜ry! cease, O the dread scene! (in misery how sublime !) And helpless dumb Despair, awaiting Death. O the dread scene !-'Tis agony to tell, The last, last parting, ere her spirits fled. Restore her, Heaven, as from the grave retrieveIn each calm moment all things else resign'd, Her looks, her language, show how hard to leave The lov'd companion she must leave behind. Restore her, Heaven! for once in mercy spare— Thus Love's vain prayer in anguish interpos'd; And from Suspence gave place to dumb despair, And o'er the past, Death's sable curtain clos'd. In silence clos'd-My thoughts rov'd frantic round, No hope, no wish, beneath the sun remain'd; Earth, air, and skies, one dismal prospect frown'd; One pale, dead, dreary blank with horror stain'd. O lovely flower, too fair for this rude clime! Sweet Excellence! by all who knew thee mourn'd: Where is that blooming form my soul admir'd ; With native artless modesty adorn'd: With pity, meekness, charity, inspir'd? The face with rapture view'd, I view no more, The voice with rapture heard, no more I hear: Yet the lov'd features Mem'ry's eyes explore; Yet the lov'd accents fall on Mem'ry's ear. Ah sad, sad change! the source of daily pain While my rack'd bosom heaves the sigh in vain, While o'er the grave that holds the dear remains, The mould'ring veil her spirit left below; Fond Fancy dwells, and pours funereal strains, The soul-dissolving melody of woe. Nor mine alone to bear this mournful doom, My friend's fair hope, like mine so lately gain'd, O Human Life! how mutable, how vain! A spot of azure in a cloudy sky. Yet love divine! since man, infatuate man, Rests in thy works, too negligent of thee, Lays for himself on earth his little plan; Dreads not, or distant views mortality. 'Tis but to wake to nobler thought the soul, To urge us ling'ring from earth's fav'rite plain, To Virtue's path our vague steps to control, Affliction frowning comes, thy minister of pain! ELEGY XVII. AMINTA. BY THE REV. MR. GERRARD. AN o'ergrown wood my wandering steps invade, Here, from the search of busy mortals stray'd, O my Aminta ! dear distracting name ! When shall vain memory slumber o'er her woes? |