[]ELEGY I. ON THE Death of S. FOOTE, Eſq.
ELEGY.
[]I.
AH! what avails the fancied Lore of Man,
Or all the envied Gifts the Gods beſtow?
His Wiſdom Folly, Length of Time a Span,
His Life is Vanity, his Death is Woe!
II.
Could Wit protect, had Genius power to ſave,
Did they immortal Life with Fame impart,
Alexis ne'er had known a dreary Grave,
Death ne'er had drench'd an Arrow in his Heart.
[8]III.
Mourn, mourn, ye Spirits, who delight in Mirth;
In yonder Tomb Alexis breathleſs lies;
The Soul of Wit, that gave your Laughter Birth,
Inhabits, once again, her native Skies.
IV.
How fix'd thoſe Features which ſo well pourtray'd
The Cobweb Virtues of the canting Saint;
How dull thoſe Eyes that could ſo well upbraid,
And Mimas' Vice in Mimas' Manner paint.
V.
Weep, ye who bend beneath the ſavage Rod
Of ſtern Oppreſſion, ſpurning human Laws,
Your Champion, cover'd by yon ſenſeleſs Sod,
Hears not your Griefs, or ſure he'd plead your Cauſe.
VI.
Rejoice, ye Sons of Rapine; Io! your Foe,
Who dragg'd your dark Miſdeeds to public Shame,
Your ſcourge is fled, no longer ſhall ye know
The Stings of guilty Terrot at his Name.
[9]VII.
Where's now the pliant Muſcle big with Whim,
The Eye that fill'd with Laughter ev'ry Face,
The various Voice, the oft-diſtorted Limb,
And all the mirth-fed Features of Grimace?
VIII.
How ghaſtly now his Grin! No latent Spark
Of new-found Wit ſheds Dimples o'er his Cheek;
No heavy Blockhead dreads himſelf the Mark
On whom the biting Gibe ſhall ſhortly break.
IX.
Where now the Shouts that Theatres have rent,
While Laughter roar'd and begg'd to be reliev'd?
Ah! where the Plaudits every Hand has ſent,
When Humour brought forth all that Wit conceiv'd?
X.
Mourn, every MUSE, in Elegiac Song,
In Metre melancholic let if flow;
Adown the doleful Breeze your Griefs prolong
In Wails, and Sighs, and Tears, ſhrill ſad and ſlow.
[10]XI.
But oh! THALIA, be thy Sorrows loud,
Tho' all-unus'd to Accents ſo ſevere;
Ah! ſhed the Drop moſt precious o'er his Shroud,
For ſure a Son like him deſerves a Tear.
XII.
Full well he once was known thy dear Delight;
Thou ne'er deny'd'ſt whate'er he deign'd to aſk,
Thy choiceſt Pen was his whene'er he'd write,
And his, whene'er he'd act, thy choiceſt Maſk.
XIII.
Ye ſhagged SATYRS leave the deep Receſs,
The dark cloſe Woodland, and the braky Dell;
Quit every pointed Weapon of Redreſs,
Hear! ſhriek and hear! your Fav'rite's paſſing Bell.
XIV.
No more we catch your Meaning from his Eye,
No more he wields the many-barbed Dart,
Or guides your galling Arrows as they fly,
To ſtrike the guilty Sinner thro' the Heart.
[11]XV.
Ye light-wing'd SPRITES, who ſport in Fancy's Dome,
With Freaks and Bounds in antic Circles play,
Attend your kindred Genius to his Home,
Proclaim him welcome to the Realms of Day.
XVI.
Ye SYLPHS, who down the Sun-beams love to flit,
And round the Poet's Temples Laurel twine,
Or, jocund, on the dancing Ignis ſit,
Or quaff from azure Streams aetherial Wine,
XVII.
Forſake your Sports; and, if you know to weep,
If e'er your ſilken Lids ſuſtain ſuch Dew,
Here pour your Tears,—behold, in endleſs Sleep,
The Swain who all your Haunts and Frolics knew!
XVIII.
Ye FAUNS and FAIRIES, whereſoe'er ye rove,
O'er Hill, o'er Dale, or mid the Virgin Throng;
Ye NYMPHS, ye DRYADS, of the Brook, the Grove,
Who ſing ſo ſweet in many a witching Song;
[12]XIX.
Come, FANCY'S OFFSPRING, every CHILD of VERSE,
Whatever Clime your printleſs Feet ſhall tread;
Aſſemble ALL,—alternate Griefs rehearſe,
In ſolemn Song funereal Honours ſhed.
XX.
And as ye paſs the Mountain, Mead, or Dell,
Where laviſh Nature ſtrews her Gifts profuſe,
From Hawthorn's Point, Grub's Beard, or Lilly's Bell,
Collect the Sweets that moſt delight the Muſe.
XXI.
Bring every Spell and Charm, each Fruit and Flower,
Each Herb, each Plant to Poet fragrant found;
With all due Rites erect the Cypreſs Bower,
And bleſs the Turf, and conſecrate the Ground.
XXII.
Then while coy Phoebe grants her glimm'ring Beam,
And flitting Ghoſts entrance the fearful Eye,
On broken Vows while Maids, forſaken, dream,
And ſtart and weep with many a mournful Sigh;
[13]XXIII.
While wanton Rear-Mouſe winds her mazy Rout,
And ſqueaks, to liſt'ning Glow-Worm, antic Song;
Your Vigils keep—with ſhrill and ſudden Shout
Scare each unhallow'd Foot from forth your Throng.
XXIV.
Enough, fair FANCY, lightly bound away;—
Advance PHILOSOPHY. Lo! TRUTH appears,
Who, with her ſober Mien, and moral Lay,
Foretels the ſad Events of future Years.
XXV.
Young Ammon
*, once admir'd, belov'd, obey'd,
Graſp'd half the Globe, and daft the Hours away;
Crowns gave for Playthings, Slaves of Monarchs made,
Then dropt a little Lump of lifeleſs Clay.
XXVI.
Now what avails the fair hiſtoric Page,
Where all his Acts are blazon'd to the World?
What tho' th'Antipodes once ſelt his Rage,
And 'gainſt the Poles his Thunderbolts were hurl'd?
[14]XXVII.
Had he not better far, in peaceful Lore,
Turn'd o'er the moral Page, and ſmil'd ſerene,
Than, thus delighting in the Battle's Roar,
T'have made the ſhrieking World one tragic Scene?
XXVIII.
Loſt is his Valour; loſt, to him, his Fame;
He heeds not, hears not, RUMOUR'S fickle Blaſt;
And all who live to hear and read his Name
Are poſting after him with heedleſs Haſte.
XXIX.
With fancied Dignity important grown,
Man acts as tho' his Follies were to laſt;
Builds, plants, or mounts, perhaps, a thorn-ſtrew'd Throne,
Dies, rots, and gives the Worms a ſhort Repaſt.
XXX.
What melancholy Scenes ſalute his Eyes,
Prophetic Leſſons of approaching Fate;
Still he purſues each Phantom as it flies,
And loſes Happineſs in finding State.
[15]XXXI.
Bleſt be the Sons of Science, Nymph ſublime!
She lures her Children to the calm Retreat,
And ſolves the Problem, and ſuggeſts the Rhyme,
And to the dulcet Sound directs the Feet.
XXXII.
She prompts the Song to Love, to Peace, and Joy;
The matchleſs Muſic of Content ſhe chants;
Her heav'n-born Beauties ne'er her Lovers cloy,
She knows no Sorrows, for ſhe feels no Wants.
XXXIII.
She philoſophic Temp'rance loves to chear,
And bids to ſhun, like Death, imagin'd Ills;
Their Sweets are bitter thro' the plenteous Year
Who know no Medium to their wayward Wills.
XXXIV.
Bleſt be Alexis! Science loves the Name;
He well approv'd him of her darling Race;
And be that Wretch accurſt who damns his Fame,
Or would his little Follies backward trace!