Poetry Archives

Darling of science and the muse,
How shall a son of song refuse
  To shed a tear for thee?
To us, so soon, for ever lost,
What hopes, what prospects have been cross’d
  By Heaven’s supreme decree?

How could a parent, love-beguiled,
In life’s fair prime resign a child
  So duteous, good, and kind?
The warblers of the soothing strain
Must string the elegiac lyre in vain
  To soothe the wounded mind!

Yet, Fancy, hovering round the tomb,
Half envies, while she mourns thy doom,
  Dear poet, saint, and sage!
Who into one short span, at best,
The wisdom of an age compress’d,
  A patriarch’s lengthen’d age!

To him a genius sanctified,
And purged from literary pride,
  A sacred boon was given:
Chaste as the psalmist’s harp, his lyre
Celestial raptures could inspire,
  And lift the soul to Heaven.

’Twas not the laurel earth bestows,
’Twas not the praise from man that flows,
  With classic toil he sought:
He sought the crown that martyrs wear,
When rescued from a world of care;
  Their spirit too he caught.

Here come, ye thoughtless, vain, and gay,
Who idly range in Folly’s way,
  And learn the worth of time:
Learn ye, whose days have run to waste,
How to redeem this pearl at last,
  Atoning for your crime.

This flower, that droop’d in one cold clime
Transplanted from the soil of time
  To immortality,
In full perfection there shall bloom;
And those who now lament his doom
  Must bow to God’s decree.


London, 27th Feb. 1808.