Art Walker Let. AN ELEGY, ON THE DEATH OF LADY COVENTRY. WRITTEN IN 1760; BY WILLIAM MASON, M. A. HE midnight clock has toll'd; and hark, the TH bell Of Death beats flow! heard ye the note It paufes now; and now, with rifing knell, So oft have tript in her fantastic train, With hearts as gay, and faces half as fair: For For fhe was fair beyond your brightest bloom: (This Envy owns, fince now her bloom is fled) Or caught the orient blush of quick furprize, Demands the tribute of a serious Song. Where cold and wan the flumberer refts her head; In ftill fmall whispers to reflection's ear, She breathes the folemn dictates of the Dead. O catch the awful notes, and lift them loud! Proclaim the theme, by Sage, by Fool rever'd; Hear it, ye Young, ye Vain, ye Great, ye Proud! 'Tis Nature speaks, and Nature will be heard. Yes, ye fhall hear, and tremble as you hear, While, high with health, your hearts exulting leap: For fay, than COVENTRY's propitious ftar, Or Or gave of Fortune's gifts an ampler share, Ye fip the nectar of each varying bloom: The wintry form that fweeps you to the tomb. Think of her Fate! revere the heav'nly hand That led her hence, though foon, by steps fo flow; Long at her couch Death took his patient stand, And menac'd oft, and oft withheld the blow: To give Reflection time, with lenient art, Each fond delufion from her foul to steal; Teach her from Folly peaceably to part, And wean her from a world fhe lov'd fo well. Say, are ye fure his Mercy fhall extend To you so long a fpan? Alas, ye figh: Make then, while yet ye may, your God your friend, Contracts with bigot frown her fullen brow; Cafts round Religion's orb the mists of fear, Or fhades with horrors, what with fmiles fhould glow: No; fhe would warm you with feraphic fire, Heirs as ye are of heav'n's eternal day; Would bid you boldly, to that heav'n aspire, Not fink and flumber in your cells of clay. Know, ye were form'd to range yon azure field, In yon æthereal founts of blifs to lave; Force then, fecure in Faith's protecting fhield, The Sting from Death, the Vict'ry from the Grave. [ 4 ] Is this the bigot's rant? Away, ye Vain, Your hopes, your fears in doubt, in dulnefs steep: Go footh your fouls in fickness, grief, or pain, With the fad folace of eternal sleep. Yet will I praise you, triflers as ye are, More than those preachers of your fav'rite creed, The breeze of blifs, that fills your filken fail : Your little courfe to cold oblivion's fhore: Long muft the warrior moulder in his fhroud, Is it his grafp of Empire to extend ? To curb the fury of infulting foes? NOTE. Ambition, In a book of French verfes, entitled Oeuvres du Philofophende fans Souci, and lately reprinted at Berlin by authority, under the title of Poefies Diverses, may be found an epistle to marshal KEITH, written profeffedly against the immortality of the Soul. By way of specimen of the whole, take the following lines : De Ambition, cease: the idle contest end: 'Tis but a Kingdom thou canft win or lofe. And why muft murder'd myriads lose their all, (If life be all) why defolation lour, With famifh'd frown, on this affrighted ball, That thou may'st flame the meteor of an hour? Go, wiser ye, that flutter Life away, Crown with the mantling Juice the goblet high; Nor fhall the Pile of Hope, his Mercy rear'd, Shall be by all or fuffer'd or enjoy'd. De l'avenir, cher KEITH, jugeons par le paffé ; Par un meme deftin il ne penfera plus; Non, rien n'eft plus certain, foyons-en convaincu, &c. It is to this epiftle, that the rest of the Elegy alludes. |