Impromptu

As Britain mourn’d, with all a mother’s pain, Two Sons, two gallant Sons, ignobly slain; Mild Cook, by savage fury robb’d of breath, And martial Andre doom’d to baser death! The Goddess, plung’d in grief too vast to speak, Hid in her robe her tear-disfigur’d cheek.

The sacred Nine, with sympathetic care, Survey’d the noble mourner’s dumb despair; While from their choir the sighs of pity broke, The Muse of Elegy thus warmly spoke: “Take, injured Parent, all we can bestow, “To soothe thy heart, and mitigate thy woe!”

Speaking, to earth the kind enthusiast came, And veil’d her heavenly power with SEWARD’S name; And that no vulgar eye might pierce the truth, Proclaim’d herself the friend of Andre’s youth. In that fair semblance, with such plaintive fire, She struck the chords of her pathetic lyre, The weeping Goddess owns the blest relief, And fondly listens, with subsiding grief; Her loveliest daughters lend a willing ear, Honouring the latent Muse with many a tear. Her bravest sons, who in their every vein Feel the strong pathos of the magic strain, Bless the enchanting lyre, by glory strung, Envying the dead, who are so sweetly sung.