ON THE DEATH O F L A D Y ANSON. ADDRESSED TO HER FATHER. 1761. CROWN'D with honour, bleft with length of days,. Ah, no! when Love, when Reason, hand in hand,. And Piety applauds the falling tear. Thofe facred drops, by virtuous weakness shed, From tender thought their fource unblam'd they draw, When She now no change, nor you no fear can feel : A FUNERAL HY M N. YE I.. E midnight shades, o'er Nature fpread! In honour of th' approaching dead, Around your awful terrors pour. On this pale ground, Through all this deep furrounding gloom,. The tear untaught,, Those meeteft mourners at a tomb.. II. Lo as the furplic'd train draw near The flow fad bell, the fable bier, With trembling ftream,. Attending tapers faintly dart; Each mouldering bone,. Each fculptor'd stone, Strikes mute instruction to the heart! III. Now, III. Now, let the facred organ blow, IV. To lift it in the Maker's praife, Who first inform'd our frame with breath; Now, gracious, gives us o'er to Death. In him appears, Who fhuts the fcene of human woes: Beneath his fhade Securely laid,' The dead alone find true repofe. V. Then, while we mingle dust with duft, And man moft happy, when he dies! Fair fpring at last Receives him on her flowery fhore; Where Pleasure's rofe Immortal blows, And fin and forrow are no more! то TO MIR A. FROM THE COUNTRY. A T this late hour, the world lies hush'd below, Nor is one breath of air awake to blow. Now walks mute Midnight, darkling o'er the plain, Reft, and foft-footed Silence, in his train, To blefs the cottage, and renew the swain. These all-asleep, me all-awake they find; Nor reft, nor filence, charm the lover's mind. Already, I a thousand torments prove, The thousand torments of divided love: The rolling thought, impatient in the breast; The fluttering wish on wing, that will not reft; Defire, whose kindled flames, undying, glow; Knowledge of distant blifs, and present woe; Unhufh'd, unfleeping all, with me they dwell, Children of absence, and of loving well! These pale the cheek, and cloud the chearlefs Swell the swift tear, and heave the frequent figh: These reach the heart, and bid the health decline; And thefe, O Mira! these are truly mine. eye, She, whofe sweet smile would gladden all the grove, Whose mind is music, and whose looks are love; She, gentle power! victorious foftnefs!-She, Mira, is far from hence, from love, and me; Yet, in my every thought, her form I find, Her looks, her words-her world of charms combin'd! Sweetness Sweetness is her's, and unaffected ease; The native wit, that was not taught to please. The eye's attemper'd fire, the winning grace, A WINTER'S DAY. Written in a STATE OF MELANCHOLY. N OW, gloomy foul! look out-now comes thy turn With thee, behold all ravag'd nature mourn. Hail the dim empire of thy darling night, That spreads, flow-fhadowing, o'er the vanquish'd light Look out, with joy; the Ruler of the day, Faint, as thy hopes, emits a glimmering ray: Already exil'd to the utmost sky, Hither, oblique, he turn'd his clouded eye. |