On the Death of Dr. Parne, Fellow of Trin. Col. Cam

At length, poor suffering wretch, thy pangs are o'er, Death seals thy eyes, and thou shalt groan no more; No more shall misery reach thy tortur'd breast, Nor life's low cares disturb thy settled rest: From pride, ambition, envy, malice free, Thou feel'st no more the gripes of penury, Nor all the thousand pains of sad mortality. Yet sure some decent honours to thy shade, From learning's sons some tribute might be paid: In the last office might there not have been Some added grace to solemnize the scene? Some plaintive Muse to deck thy empty bier, Some pitying friend to drop the tender tear? But foes pursued thee to thy latest breath, And malice left thee not a friend in death. One eye alone I saw with sorrow flow, In artless full simplicity of woe; The faithful rustic wept; and only he Reproach'd the croud for lost humanity. Despis'd, unfelt for, unlamented lay, In the rude grave, th' unanimated clay. And yet this trampled corse had once a name, Once was no stranger to the voice of fame; This thing despis'd was once with genius fir'd, Nay, by the adverse Bentley was admir'd; 'Midst Granta's sons but lately fill'd the chair, Graceful, as when her Whalley's self was there. Foe to himself alone, his open mind Embrac'd, and lov'd, and would have serv'd mankind; But niggard Fortune acts by partial rules, And oft her bounty showers on knaves and fools; Once she could smile on him with glimmering ray, But clouded o'er the evening of his day; In life's decline no healing comfort gave, But sunk his soul with sorrow to the grave. By hopes too sanguine led, he met the fate Of all who seek the rich, and trust the great. He went, he bow'd, he heard, and he believ'd; Was courted, flatter'd, promis'd,—and deceiv'd; Find we then most to pity or to blame? Shall we reward with praise, or brand with shame? If livelier parts to venial faults betray, Must censure wipe his merits quite away? If meagre want, with deep affliction join'd, Subdue the reason, and unhinge the mind, Shall we, officious, every blot reveal, And judge him with uncharitable zeal? Or kindly weep for Nature thus decay'd, And o'er his failings cast a friendly shade; To future ages bid his virtues bloom, And bury all his follies in the tomb.