MARCELLUS: A MONODY.
Humbly inscrib'd to Her Royal Highness THE PRINCESS of
WALES.
By Mr.
DELAP,
M. A. Fellow of
Magdalen
College, CAMBRIDGE.
Multis ille bonis flebilis occidit
Nulli flebilior quam tibi.
HOR.
LONDON:
Printed for R. DODSLEY in
Pall-mall;
And sold by M. COOPER in
Pater-noster-Row.
1751.
MARCELLUS: A MONODY.
YE virgin-train, that whilom wak'd your lyres,
Fast by the chrystal springs of
Helicon,
To heav'nly strains of joy those dulcet Notes
Ill suit a Nation's universal moan,
When ev'ry hope with their lost Prince is gone.
The thrilling voice of joy no longer floats
O'er pale
Britannia's
sadly-silent shore;
MARCELLUS is no more!
But oh, the doleful change! the plaintive muse,
In cypress crown'd, must pour her piteous loan
Of sigh, and tear, and heart-empiercing groan!
Come then,
Melpomene,
begin the Lay,
With rueful Tears your sorrowing Dirges steep,
Such tears as erst your sister-muse did weep
For her dear twin
-Palici:
every stream
Shall stop to hear your theme,
Then sadly murmur to the plaintive shore
MARCELLUS is no more!
And feeble Echo from her aery cave
Shall back return the note, and ev'ry vale,
With all its flow'rs shall droop to hear the tale.
How can he lie unwept who knew to raise
Esteem and love in every loyal heart.
He was the pride of ev'ry Shepherd's praise,
Grac'd with each decent and each princely part.
Nor did the muse ungrateful pour her lays;
He oft wou'd listen to the poet's art:
And oft alone, beneath the muse's grot,
Hid from a nation's eye, he sat and thought.
Full many an hour, his Offspring pratling round,
In gentle dalliance has he fondly smil'd;
Full many an hour, sequester'd from annoys,
In tender amorous talk, has he beguil'd,
With the dear Partner of his dearest joys.
Mean while the foe of Life, with treacherous art,
In sly destruction prey'd upon his heart;
And yet no fatal symptom did appear;
The blood still mantled on his rosy cheek.
As
Phaebus
oft the clouds with gold doth streak,
While brooding storms engender in the air.
Where was your knowledge then, you sapient Tribe,
That boast commandment o'er the pulse of life?
Was not a Princess' tears sufficient bribe,
Cou'd not a King's, a Nation's pray'rs prevail
To make your nicest skill explore his ail?
Some few more Years the breath of Life supply,
And keep him from the Sky—
Ah me, what boots your skill?—Not all the pray'rs
That pale
Britannia,
and her King might pour;
Not all
Augusta
's sadly-flowing Tears,
Not
Aesculapius'
Sons with all their care,
Might ward the black inevitable hour.
Or could their Prince's vital Band repair,
Which in their mood the fatal Sisters tore.
Alass, he droop'd in life's maturest age,
While
Albion
's sceptre hung before his view;
And thrice the wise
Machaon
did presage
That
Febris
her inflaming rage withdrew;
Yet then renewing her malignant strife,
The deadly Fiend unhous'd his tender Life.
Then stream'd the tear from ev'ry
British
eye.
But chief th' unhappy sire, in dismal plight,
Detests the odious light,
And with loud wailings tears the arched sky.
And calls on death to bring a kind reprieve,
And lay his cruel sorrows in the grave.
But ah! my Muse, how may thy voice record,
Tho' well I ween thou shar'st her piteous state,
The tender unimaginable woe,
Of his dear Consort for her ravish'd Lord,
Torn by the hand of unrelenting Fate!
Then hide the tears thou canst not give to flow.
Enough, that when reviving life did chase
Death's dismal image from her pallid face;
With manly shew she mask'd her sorrows dread;
And greatly strove to chear with kind relief
Her tender Offspring's sympathetic grief,
Who at their Mother's wretched plight grew sad.
What heart so stony but did melt in tears?
See pale
Britannia
wears,
Thro' all her Sons, one dismal face of woe.
Nor
British
eyes alone do overflow;
See even the
Orcades
and frozen Realms
By Ocean's wat'ry barrier sunder'd far,
Pay their full tribute of a tender tear.
Mean while the awful tongue of death doth pierce
Night's drowzy ear, with tollings, deep and slow;
And now the solemn pealing Organs blow.
The winking Lamps a dusky lustre shed
Along the Mansions of the Dead,
Where mould'ring Kings in silent dust repose.
And now with often interrupted sighs,
The Lawn-rob'd Prelate his last duty pays,
And dust to dust conveys:
And now entomb'd his sacred body lies,
Free from the cares, that this vain life enclose.
Up to yon regions of eternal day,
The free, unbodied spirit wings its way;
There in the bosom of its god doth bide
In pure, immaculate, unshaken bliss;
Nor recks the loss of earthly Kingdom's pride,
Enthron'd for aye in heavenly paradise.
And thou, sad Consort of a Prince too good
Longer to visit this forsaken clime;
Ah! cease to weary the relentless sky,
With bitter penance and with bootless tears.
Nor deem with vainly-pious pray'rs
To draw him from his blissful dear abode;
Where now he never more may fear to die,
Nor grieve, save when your plaints wou'd him recall,
Not lent for aye to your fond hopes, I ween!
And oh! forgive the muse, whose daring lays
Wou'd grateful pour her artless loyal teen;
Reckless that true to draw a Prince's praise,
Asks the nice touches of a master-hand,
Since she may see in your fair Offspring plann'd
The graceful dowries of their Father's mind;
See Mercy, Truth, Religion, Liberty,
Beneath the shine of your enliv'ning eye,
And ev'ry virtue that may bless mankind.
FINIS.