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The virgin multitude that daily meets,
ON THE DEATH OF THE UNIVERSITY BEADLE At CAMBRIDGE.
Thee, whose refulgent staff and summons clear Minerva's flock long time was wont to obey, Although thyself a herald, famous here, The last of heralds, Death, has snatch'd away. He calls on all alike, nor even deigns To spare the office that himself sustains.
Thy locks were whiter than the plumes display'd
But thou wast worthy ne'er to have decay'd,
Worthy, for whom some goddess should have won
New life, oft kneeling to Apollo's son.
Commission'd to converse with hasty call
The gowned tribes, how graceful wouldst thou
So stood Cyllenius erst in Priam's hall, [stand! Wing-footed messenger of Jove's command!
And so Eurybates, when he address'd
To Peleus' son, Atrides' proud behest.
Dread queen of sepulchres! whose rigorous laws
Oh, oft too adverse to Minerva's cause!
Choose meaner marks, and with more equal aim
Pierce useless drones, earth's burthen, and its
Flow, therefore, tears for him from every eye,
Assembling all in robes of sable dye, Around his bier lament his endless sleep!
And let complaining Elegy rehearse
In every school her sweetest, saddest verse.
ON THE DEATH OF THE BISHOP
Silent I sat, dejected, and alone, Making in thought the public woes my own, When first arose the image in my breast Of England's suffering by that scourge, the pest!How Death, his funeral torch and scythe in hand, Entering the lordliest mansions of the land, Has laid the gem-illumined palace low, And level'd tribes of nobles at a blow. I next deplored the famed paternal pair, Too soon to ashes turn'd and empty air!The heroes next, whom snatch'd into the skies All Belgia saw, and follow'd with her sighs;But thee far most I mourn'd, regretted most, Winton's chief shepherd, and her worthiest boast!Pour'd out in tears I thus complaining said!"Death, next in power to him who rules the dead!Is it not enough that all the woodlands yield To thy fell force, and every verdant field;That lilies, at one noisome blast of thine, And e'en the Cyprian queen's own roses pine;That oaks themselves, although the running rill Suckle their roots, must wither at thy will;That all the winged nations, even those Whose heaven-directed flight the future shows,
And all the beasts that in dark forests stray,
While thus I mourn'd, the star of evening stood,
While I that splendour, and the mingled shade Of fruitful vines, with wonder fix'd survey'd, At once, with looks that beam'd celestial grace, The seer of Winton stood before my face.
His snowy vesture's hem descending low
So spake the voice, and at its tender close
CHAPLAIN TO THE ENGLISH FACTORY AT HAMBURGH.
Hence my epistle—skim the deep—fly o'er