With a new elegance of form, unknown To its first state. Nor shall the conscious soul Shall rush, with all the impatience of a man That's new come home, who having long been absent, In pain to see the whole. Thrice happy meeting! ON THE DEATH OF LADY COVENTRY. Written in 1760. THE midnight clock has toll'd-and, hark! the bell Yes-Coventry is dead. Attend the strain, With hearts as gay, and faces half as fair: For she was fair beyond your brightest bloom; Whene'er with soft serenity she smil'd, Or caught the orient blush of quick surprise, Each look, each motion, wak'd a new-born grace, That o'er her form its transient glory cast; Some lovelier wonder soon usurp'd the place, Chas'd by a charm still lovelier than the last. That bell again! It tells us what she is; Maria claims it from that sable bier, Where cold and wan the slumberer rests her head; In still small whispers to reflection's ear She breathes the solemn dictates of the dead. O catch the awful notes, and lift them loud! Proclaim the theme, by sage, by fool, rever❜d; Hear it, ye young, ye vain, ye great, ye proud! 'Tis Nature speaks, and Nature will be heard. Yes; ye shall hear, and tremble as ye hear, For say, than Coventry's propitious star, Early to lose! While borne on busy wing, Ye sip the nectar of each varying bloom; Nor fear, while basking in the meads of spring, Think of her fate! revere the heavenly hand That led her hence, though soon, by steps so slow; Long at her couch Death took his patient stand, And menac'd oft, and oft withheld the blow: To give reflection time, with lenient art Each fond delusion from her soul to steal; Teach her from folly peaceably to part, And wean her from a world she lov'd so well. Say, are ye sure his mercy shall extend Make then, while yet ye may, your God your friend, Nor think the Muse, whose sober voice you hear, Casts round religion's orb the mists of fear, Or shades with horrors what with smiles should glow. No-she would warm you with seraphic fire, Know, ye were form'd to range yon azure field, The sting from death, the victory from the grave! Is this the bigot's rant? Away, ye vain, Your hopes, your fears, in doubt, in dulness steep; Go sooth your souls, in sickness, grief, or pain, With the sad solace of eternal sleep! Yet will I praise you, triflers as ye are, More than those preachers of your fav'rite creed, Who proudly swell the brazen throat of war, Who form the phalanx, bid the battle bleed, Nor wish for more; who conquer but to die. The breeze of bliss that fills your silken sail! On pleasure's glittering stream ye gayly steer Your little course to cold oblivion's shore; They dare the storm, and through th' inclement year Stem the rough surge, and brave the torrent's roar. Is it for glory? That just fate denies; Long must the warrior moulder in his shroud, Ere from her trump the heaven-breath'd accents rise, That lift the hero from the fighting crowd! Is it his grasp of empire to extend? To curb the fury of insulting foes? Ambition, cease! the idle contest end : 'Tis but a kingdom thou canst win or lose. And why must murder'd myriads lose their all, (If life be all,) why desolation lower |