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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
profound?

It paufes now; and now, with rifing knell,
Flings to the hollow gale its fullen found.
Yes, COVENTRY is dead. Attend the ftrain,
Daughters of Albion! Ye that, light as air,

So oft have tript in her fantastic train,

With hearts as gay, and faces half as fair:
Α

For

For fhe was fair beyond your brightest bloom:

(This Envy owns, fince now her bloom is fled)
Fair as the Forms that, wove in Fancy's loom,
Float in light vifion round the Poet's head.
Whene'er with foft ferenity fhe fmil'd,

Or caught the orient blush of quick furprize,
How fweetly mutable, how brightly wild,
The liquid luftre darted from her eyes?
Each look, each motion wak'd a new-born grace,
That o'er her form its tranfient glory caft:
Some lovelier wonder foon ufurp'd the place,
Chas'd by a charm ftill lovelier than the laft.
That bell again! It tells us what she is: J
On what she was no more the strain prolong :
Luxuriant Fancy paufe: an hour like this

Demands the tribute of a serious Song.
MARIA claims it from that fable bier,

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:
Ev'n in the midst of pleasure's mad career,
The mental Monitor fhall wake and weep.

For fay, than COVENTRY's propitious ftar,
What brighter planet on your births arose;

Or

Or gave of Fortune's gifts an ampler share,
In life to lavish, or by death to lofe!
Early to lofe; while, born on busy wing,

Ye fip the nectar of each varying bloom:
Nor fear, while basking in the beams of spring,

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,
And learn with equal eafe to fleep or die!
Nor think the Mufe, whofe fober voice ye hear,

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.

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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,
Who proudly fwell the brazen throat of War,
Who form the Phalanx, bid the battle bleed;
Nor wish for more: who conquer, but to die.
Hear, Folly, hear; and triumph in the tale:
Like you, they reafon; not, like you, enjoy

The breeze of blifs, that fills your filken fail :
On Pleasure's glitt'ring ftream ye gayly steer

Your little courfe to cold oblivion's fhore:
They dare the storm, and, through th'inclement year,
Stem the rough furge, and brave the torrent's roar.
Is it for Glory? that juft Fate denies.

Long muft the warrior moulder in his fhroud,
E'er from her trump the heav'n-breath'd accents rise,
That lift the Hero from the fighting croud.

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;
Weave the light dance, with feftive freedom gay,
And live your moment, fince the next ye die.
Yet know, vain Scepticks, know, th’Almighty mind,
Who breath'd on Man a portion of his fire,
Bad his free Soul, by earth nor time confin'd,
To Heav'n, to Immortality afpire.

Nor fhall the Pile of Hope, his Mercy rear'd,
By vain Philofophy be e'er deftroy'd;
Eternity, by all or wifh'd or fear'd,

Shall be by all or fuffer'd or enjoy'd.

De l'avenir, cher KEITH, jugeons par le paffé ;
Comme avant que je fuffe il n'avoit point pensé,
De meme, apres ma mort, quand toutes mes parties
Par le corruption feront aneanties,

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.

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