An Elegy on the death of Miss Polly Preston, who died December 26th, 1781

Ye sprightly fair, who form the sportive train, And follow on in pleasure's flowery maze, Permit the Muse to urge her plaintive strain, And court your int'rest, tho' unmov'd by praise.

Hard is the task—experience speaks it hard— Nor dare her fondest, warmest hopes presume The moral lesson will ensure regard, Or truths impress, tho' issuing from the tomb:

Yet, o'er the counsels of Maria dwell, Nor fiction this, from Poets' fancy penn'd; These, from her lips, in fault'ring accents fell— The dying tribute to her weeping friend.—

And art thou come, Eliza, to behold The last sad struggle of her sinking frame, Who soon shall be in death's long lists enroll'd, And to the number, add Maria's name?

Swift speeds the time, when from its kindred clay The soul, unloos'd, shall wing her rapid flight To worlds unknown—explore the mystic way— Launch'd in the vast abyss of infinite.

But, oh! e'er yet I to the world am lost, And bid my final, long and sad adieu, My lab'ring mind, 'midst various conflicts tost, Still owns the friendship that it bore for you.

See the drear symptoms of the swift decay! The languid eye-ball, and the nerve unstrung! My feeble pulse almost forbears to play, And speech, abortive, dies upon my tongue.

Mark well the solemn, the instructive scene! View youth and vigour here enfeebled lie! Oh! say, what less can the sad import mean— Loud is the call,—Ye young! prepare to die!

Shun, then, my friend, each fond, delusive joy; Give their full worth—and Vanity's the sum; Let solemn themes the Heav'n-born mind employ, And seek the pleasures of a world to come:

Flee the vain follies of the thoughtless age, As far below the wise immortal's care; Obey the precepts of the inspir'd page, And learn to trace sublime enjoyment there.

The humble suppliant at the throne of grace, In ardent breathings, let your suit arise; Nor rest estranged from your Maker's face;— So shall Eliza be sincerely wise.

She spake;—and scarce the solemn charge enjoin'd, E'er gasping nature spent its feeble breath; When the Fair Monitor her life resign'd, And bow'd a victim to relentless death!

Ye youths, who bore the torpid Maid's remains, The ghastly reliques of once ripening bloom, In sad procession o'er your native plains, And round her clos'd the deeply yawning tomb;

Where now the charms of the attractive fair! The blushing cheek, and brightly sparkling eye! She's gone—forever gone!—to moulder where Youth, wit and beauty, unexampled lie.

Come, then, ye gay, forget the recent blow, Exhaust your strength, your wonted sports pursue; Indulge your mirth, and spend your prime; but know There is a God—a God of judgment too.

Pardon the thought! Far hence be strains severe; Let Reason urge her long unheeded claim; With def'rence due the friendly voice revere, Nor longer frustrate her ingenuous aim.

Could you convene to form the giddy throng, And to the viol dance with airy tread? Deaf to reflection, act the double wrong, Degrade the living, and insult the dead?

Hence let not grov'ling sense the sceptre wield; Ye young, be taught from this the Almighty's rod; Let baseless joys to bliss substantial yield, Aspire, and seek your happiness in God.

So shall your youth's be nobly crown'd indeed, And years come fraught with wisdom's sweet increase; To lives well spent the promis'd Heav'n succeed, And death's kind summons waft your souls to peace.