ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF RUTLAND.
O DOLOR, ATQUE DECUS MAGNUM REDITURE!
VIRG.
BY DR. DELAP.
LONDON: PRINTED FOR JOHN STOCKDALE, OPPOSITE BURLINGTON-HOUSE, PICCADILLY. MDCCIXXXVIII. [PRICE ONE SHILLING.]
TO HER GRACE THE DUTCHESS OF RUTLAND, THE FOLLOWING ELEGY IS, WITH ALL DUE DEFERENCE, INSCRIBED, BY HER GRACE's MOST OBEDIENT AND MOST HUMBLE SERVANT,
LONDON,
Feb.
12, 1788.
J. DELAP.
ELEGY, &c.
AGAIN that funeral knell?—'tis Death's deep toll,
And Rutland is no more!—the general groan,
The gush of grief from sorrow's inmost soul,
Sound the last summons—He's for ever gone!
Nor youth, nor titles ranged in proud array,
Nor loftiest lineage, high as kings may go;
Nor a whole people's prayer, have power to stay
The mortal malady's malignant blow.
Such, in this pilgrimage of earthly cares,
For many a short sojourner the sad sigh.
Fate's formidable ordinance declares
The best are born to suffer and to die.
But while thro' all her sons Hibernia mourns
The statesman dead, the friend, companion lost,
In Britain, in his native Britain, burns
No generous breast to hail his honour'd ghost?
For never from its mournful mansion forth,
Went one more honour'd to the realms above;
And yet not nobler in exalted worth,
Than gracious gifts of courtesy and love.
Ah, melancholy thought!—the general groan
Of heart-felt horror thro' a people spread,
In one sad mourner center'd, all in one,
Soon shall burst over a lov'd husband dead.
Dead, ere his hour, by too severe a fate,
In the full prime of life's meridian bloom;
His ardent spirits high with hope elate
Of many a joy, in many a year to come.
Ill-destin'd youth! nor year, alas, hast thou,
Nor joy to come, from this devoted day.
Transient thy morn of glory, as the bow
That blazons heav'n's blue arch, and fades away.
Not so the sorrows a fond consort pours!
Sorrows!—but who may paint what passeth shew?
With what diviner inspiration's powers
An angel's agonies unfold to view?
Such, (and the funeral harbinger draws near)
Such, as when fate's irrevocable doom
On her lov'd Lord assails her fear-full ear,
Pale now and cold in night's eternal gloom.
What heart, with Shakspear's fire, would firmness have
To ponder on those moments, when Despair
Its ghastly semblance on that face shall grave,
Fairer than Fancy's pencil could make fair?
To hear that voice, that 'witch'd the list'ning soul
With more than musick, all discordant broke;
In thrilling plaints, disdainful of controll,
Calling on cruel Death, whose ruthless stroke
Kill'd all her hopes?—"You sunk him to the tomb,
"Remorseless Death! you sped the dart, (she cries;)
"Ere I to catch the parting breath could come,
"Press his pale lips, and close his dying eyes.
"He's gone! the bright star that illum'd my sky!
"Discolour'd now with dim'd and loathsome light.
"Where e'er I turn, no gleam of comfort nigh;
"'Tis silence all, and solitude, and night!
"Now never more, the lonely hour to cheer,
"Shall he be seen; to read the wistful eye;
"Hear inward anguish sigh'd to Passion's ear,
"Sooth'd only by re-murm'ring Passion's sigh.
"No, he's for ever gone! friend, husband, all,
"For which in this waste world I long'd to live.
"Vainly to me its vain enchantments call;
"Nought have I now to ask, or that to give;
"Then let what may take all!"—Ah, Lady, still,
Something remains, sad Lady; still too dear!
When Passion's ruffled gale hath blown its fill,
Oh, there's a tender call still claims thy care!
A husband's last fond pledges of his love;
His and your love, for ever left behind.
And shall such pledges ineffectual prove?
Such melting motives on a mother's mind?
Too hapless Lady! no.—Each lenient art
To lighten their distress, that love will try;
Silence the throbbings of a bleeding heart,
And be to them their parent in the sky.
So, like some flower, (if with prophetic view
The poet's eye may glance on days to come)
Like some spring-flower, reviv'd from noxious dew,
Shall that bright form, emerging from the gloom
Of blank Misfortune's frown, with vivid glow
Again bloom forth; with roseat smiles again
Feel Health's gay spirits animated flow,
And once more lead the loves' and graces' train.
Such the warm hope of all, whose souls e'er dwelt
On the fair wonder of that heav'nly face;
Felt for such grief as only can be felt,
Which ev'n the muse herself wants pow'r to trace.
Oh, then forgive the meanest of her train;
To Rutland or to Fame how lightly known;
Who touch'd by sympathy, in artless strain,
Presumes with her laments to mix his own.
But born alike into a world of woe,
Insensibly we form the feeling breast;
Humanity heav'n sends to high and low,
The beggar and the king, a common guest.
FINIS.