Epitaph

Here low in dust, a son of Science lies, By fame distinguished, and to Genius dear; Forgive the fault, ye cynically wise, If on his grave the parent sheds a tear.

Long shall the Muses mourn their pensive friend, Long shall a mother's bosom throb with woe, O'er his lov'd tomb the duteous swains shall bend, And Albion's daughters long bewail the blow.

Now sighing, stopt again the querulous power, And ruminated thoughtful—o'er the turf, Swell'd into mountains, by the mingled dead, She cast a serious eye—and now the Hours, The light-wing'd messengers of hoary Time, Brought on the sable zenith of the night, Cloudless, and incompos'd, by gale, or shower, Save that the Zephir rising from the south, Rustled the light leaf of the spreading beech. Far thro' the caerule air, th' illumin'd moon Her faint ray flung upon the shadowy earth! Struck by the scene, Imagination turn'd Reflective, on a loss still more severe; A loss that all the Muses mourn at once. The cheek of GENIUS stream'd with warmer tears, Deepen'd the searching sigh, and throbb'd the heart, As thus, at length the bursting grief found way:

Child of my heart—thou matchless soul of Song! Guide of fair truth, and leading star of fame, Etherial in thy talents, as thy mind, Wise as all wisdom here below could be, Sublimely tuneful, but not more sublime Than delicate—nor more refin'd, than good; For Virtue ever brighten'd in thy lay, And beam'd fresh graces thro' thy ardent song; A song, that dar'd a flight above the spheres, Caelestially ambitious; Heaven-inspir'd, Thy hopes angelic, and thy theme a God!— Thou Muses miracle—thou Nation's pride, Whose worth, yon silver Queen of night proclaim'd, When thou her pitying sympathy address'd, Whose wisdom all our sages loudly praise, Sages of science, by deep thought made sage, Whose Virtue, Immortality rewards, Whose GENIUS, scorning narrow human ken, And the pent limits of this pigmy world, (Where in a circle circumscrib'd by fate, The mole-ey'd mortal dimly gazes round, And boasts his deep sagacity of sight; Important emmet—pride-elated mite, Infinite atom—momentary worm—) Superior soars to scenes behind the cloud, Oh YOUNG—thou day-bright poet of the night, Accept sincere the genuine plaint of woe Maternal—struck immediate from the heart; An heart that labours deep with various grief! And thou, Oh Cynthia—thou who lent thine aid Caerulian; and shed thy influence round, Chearing the darkness of thy Poet's fate; A fate envelop'd deep in Fortune's gloom, Dark beyond all the horrors of the night, When intercepting clouds repel thy rays, And not a gleam softens the black opaque, Dark beyond common woes—death—dark distress, Ebon of soul, more sabled than the Styx, As once HIS anguish, thou with influence bland Benign didst seel—now kindly feel for me; For me—sad relict of a prostrate race,— Partake a wretched parent's soul-heav'd throb, A parent rest of every filial joy, And smote by death's most desolating dart. Beneath thy sober, sublunary shine, (Tremulous, tender, melancholy—soft, Suited to soothe the solitary woe,) Beneath thy shine—ne'er did a greater Bard, Latian, Athenian, or in Briton born, Pour on the ear of night a lovelier song, Ne'er didst thou patronize a nobler lay, Nor hear a strain more pensively divine, Fair in distress, and querulously sweet; Oh! how the Poet breath'd at every pause! Oh! how the Godhead dignified each line! Oh! how the intrepid Christian crown'd the whole! 'Twas not the courtly period of the day, Form'd to entrap the complimented fool, 'Twas not the airy, fashionable page, Politely pert, and musically dull, The sing-song nothing of some moon-struck elf; 'Twas Genius spoke the language of the soul, A language, losty, elegant and strong; Pathos of sense, and energy of sound. Beyond the common flight of modern song, Beyond the tinsel of the rhimeing tribe, Which for the flimsy Sonnet cull the flowers Parnassian (scarce deserving to be cropt, The stinted scyons of the mountain's foot) To deck their May-day garland of an hour. Beyond the soar of sentimental fools That delicately weave the web of wit, And spin the silken moral from the brain, Industriously idle—cobweb-thin, The tender texture of a vacant skull, And unsubstantial, as the fairy scene, Form'd by the frolicks of the fallen snow— Far above such, THY vigorous Genius soar'd, Genius cherubic—near allied to Heaven, Of heavenly themes ambitious—Oh my Son! Oh, what a stroke upon the feeling heart! Oh what a fall to Britain, and to me! And rises then my sorrow into guilt, Verges my fondness on impiety, Reason, religion, duty, all forgot? I almost mingle blushes with my woe, Confusion flings her crimson in my cheek, And colouring Conscience dyes a deeper red! Fall, did I say?—say rather what a rise, A rise high-bounding to his native skies, How great! how vast! how glorious! how profound! To us how vital—to himself how fair? He wish'd for Heav'n, and Heav'n has heard his prayer. Then let me hail his beatific shade— The well-rewarded spirit bower'd in bliss!— Yet Nature, feeble Nature, clinging to the chords, And pressing hard upon the tender strings, That move the finer feelings in our frame, With arbitrary rage, demands her claim, And usurer-like exacts the parent-sigh. Spite of the exultations I should feel, The hymn of triumph, and the peal of praise, The tender tyrant tugs about my Breast, Strikes on each pulse, and sluices every vein— Ah rebel nerves, be still—or if too hard, The thoughts of losing HIM the most ador'd, Bears on thy weaker sense—indulge a pause, From Nature—Passion—Torture and Thyself. Oh, turn my soul from the distracting theme, Probe not the agonizing wound too deep, Search not the sore with too minute an eye, But from his dear idea, turn away!

She turn'd—she stopt—but found no sweet relief; The cormorant monster of the gorging grave, Had multiplied her woe—still ran her thoughts On some lov'd child, which yet remain'd unsung; Another and another to her mind Rose terrible—and starting, thus she cried, While Grief in every feature wrote Despair:

Once more, the matron ceas'd the mournful lay, But the fresh anguish soon assail'd her heart; Still call'd the populous tomb for her lament, And bad her prove vicissitude of woe, As thus she sighing, spoke:

And now, my lov'd Shenstone, for Thee, Thou pride of the pastoral strain; Thou fairest resemblance of me, Dear, elegant Bard of the plain.

For thee, will I pour the sad lay, That shall echo the thickets among; And weep as I muse on the day, That robb'd the poor swains of thy song.

Full gentle, and sweet, was the note That flow'd from his delicate heart, Simplicity, smil'd as he wrote, And Nature was polish'd by art.

But now as I look o'er thy bowers, As each shrub, and each stream, I survey, Disaster invades the soft flowers: For—oh—their lov'd master's away.

Ah, how should the woodlands be fair, Ah, how the cool grottoes be gay? The groves, murmur death, and despair, The roses all droop and decay;

Full well may they sorrow and fade— The dear shepherd that rear'd them is gone, And well may the birds leave the shade— For their loves and their labours are flown. Then unseen let the Eglantine blow, Unheeded the Hyacynth lye, Unheard let the rivulets flow, Let the Primroses flourish and die,

For the Swain who should crop them is gone!— He sung—and all Nature admir'd; He spoke—and all hearts were his own; He fell—and all pity expir'd.—

Scarce had she finish'd her disasterous song, When thus again lamenting, she began—

And oh (she cried with frantic grief) Who now shall bring relief, Or where the cordial shall I find, To soothe a mother's mind, Since LYTTELTON is dead? Well may ye hang the head, And press your grassy bed, Ye conscious forests, and ye waving groves, For never shall ye see your Master more: To other scenes the aetherial Spirit roves, And tir'd of Hagley, seeks a fairer shore.

The Muses listen'd, to his polish'd strain, And every wondering swain, With pride, came thronging to his rustic bower, The Dryads own'd his power. But when he wail'd his lovely Lucy, dead, And his melodious sorrow told, The shepherds lean'd to hear, The silvans dropt a tear, Then all in wild disorder fled. Rapt in the deepest shades recess, They mourn'd their gentle Lord's distress, And join'd his prayers for Lucy—but in vain.

And art thou gone, my venerable Son, Who shar'd with Genius the exalted throne! Pride of my age, and pillar of my care!— Mute is thy tuneful voice—"O loss beyond repair." Ah LYTTELTON, for thee, The true tear long shall bathe this hoary breast, For there thy worth, and talents live imprest— Engrav'd by SYMPATHY. Oh! fall severely felt, To make a parent melt, The tender breast to tear; And wake despair: And scarce a child the mighty grief to share!

How shall I paint the glories of his mind, Benevolent, and kind, His reason strong, and elegantly clear, To every virtue dear! Beyond the pride of pedant rules, And maxims of the schools, His Genius knew the pleasing art, To steal upon the heart: To touch the finer passions of the mind, And give the sterling moral to mankind.

He was the very glory of my race, Even in the vale of life, in reason's bloom, Adorn'd with every learned grace, Amidst the shouts of power and praise, For many a year he wore the bays; Till tyrant Death Stopt his much-honour'd breath, And swept the laurel'd Hero to the tomb. So when some oak, that long supreme hath stood, The stately monarch of the imperial wood, Whose arms superior shed a verdure round, And shadow'd wide beneath, the umbrageous ground, Long time we view its top impierce the skies, Its broad leaf flourish, and its branches rise, Long time we gaze upon the glowing sight, And eye with wonder its majestic height Till time, impatient for its destin'd prey, Full at the root directs the blow, And down it drops below; The mighty ruin, of the groaning plain.

Here interrupting broke upon her plaint The peering morn—the dun-discolour'd clouds, Dispersing fast, unveil the fleecy white: Fair dawns the new-born-day; and o'er the sky The ruddy crimson, and the heaven-dipt blue, Mix'd with the fainter yellow's streaky gold, Chequering the air in rich variety, Fortell the Sun's uprise—from his broad beam, (Too garish for the melancholy mind) GENIUS withdrew, and clos'd her tender lay.