Lament; for ye our midnight hours have known,
And watch'd us walking by the silent moon
In conference divine, while heavenly fire
Kindling our breasts, did all our thoughts inspire
With joys almost immortal; then our zeal
Blaz'd and burnt high to reach the' ethereal hill,
And love refin'd, like that above the poles,
Threw both our arms round one another's souls
In rapture and embraces. Oh forbear,
Forbear my song! this is too much to hear,
Too dreadful to repeat; such joys as these
Fled from the earth for ever!
Oh, for a general grief! let all things share
Our woes, that knew our loves; the neighbouring
Let it be laden with immortal sighs,
And tell the gales, that every breath that flies
Over the fields should murmur and complain,
And kiss the fading grass, and propagate the pain.
Weep all ye buildings, and the groves around
For ever weep: this is an endless wound,
Vast and incurable. Ye buildings knew
His silver tongue, ye groves have heard it too :
At that dear sound no more shall ye rejoice,
And I no more must hear the charming voice:
Woe to my drooping soul! that heavenly breath
That could speak life lies now congeal'd in death;
While on his folded lips, all cold and pale,
Eternal chains and heavy silence dwell.
Yet my fond hope would hear him speak again, Once more, at least, one gentle word, and then Gunston aloud I call: in vain I cry
Gunston aloud; for he must ne'er reply.
In vain I mourn, and drop these funeral tears,
Death and the grave have neither eyes nor ears:
Wandering, I tune my sorrows to the groves,
And vent my swelling griefs, and tell the winds our
loves ;
While the dear youth sleeps fast, and hears them not:
He hath forgot me.
In the lonesome vault,
Mindless of Watts and Friendship, cold he lies,
Deaf and unthinking clay.-
But whither am I led? This artless grief
Hurries the Muse on, obstinate and deaf
To all the nicer rules, and bears her down
From the tall fabric to the neighbouring ground:
The pleasing hours, the happy moments past,
In these sweet fields reviving on my taste,
Snatch me away resistless with impetuous haste.
Spread thy strong pinions once again, my song,
And reach the turret thou hast left so long;
O'er the wide roof its lofty head it rears,
Long waiting our converse; but only hears
The noisy tumults of the realms on high :
The winds salute it, whistling, as they fly,
Or jarring round the windows: rattling show'rs
Lash the fair sides; above, loud thunder roars :
But still the master sleeps; nor hears the voice
Of sacred Friendship, nor the tempest's noise:
An iron slumber sits on every sense,
[thence.
In vain the heavenly thunders strive to rouse it
One labour more, my Muse, the golden sphere
Seems to demand. See through the dusky air
Downward it shines upon the rising moon;
And, as she labours up to reach her noon,
Pursues her orb with repercussive light,
And streaming gold repays the paler beams of night;
But not one ray can reach the darksome grave,
Or pierce the solid gloom that fills the cave
Where Gunston dwells in death. Behold it flames
Like some new meteor, with diffusive beams,
Through the mid-heaven, and overcomes the stars;
So shines thy Gunston's soul above the spheres,'
Raphael replies, and wipes away my tears :-
"We saw the flesh sink down with closing eyes,
We heard thy grief shriek out, "he dies, he dies!"
Mistaken grief! to call the flesh the friend!
On our fair wings did the bright youth ascend,
All Heaven embrac'd him with immortal love,
And sung his welcome to the courts above.
Gentle Ithuriel led him round the skies,
The buildings struck him with immense surprise;
The spires all radiant and the mansions bright,
The roof high-vaulted with ethereal light:
Beauty and strength on the tall bulwarks sat
In heavenly diamond; and for every gate
On golden hinges a broad ruby turns;
Guards of the foe, and as it moves it burns;
Millions of glories reign through every part:
Infinite power and uncreated art
Stand here display'd, and to the stranger show
How it outshines the noblest seats below.
The stranger fed his gazing powers awhile,
Transported: then, with a regardless smile,
Glanc'd his eye downward through the crystal floor,
And took eternal leave of what he built before.'
Now, fair Urania, leave the doleful strain;
Raphael commands: assume thy joys again.
In everlasting numbers sing, and say,
'Gunston has mov'd his dwelling to the realms of Gunston, the friend, lives still: and give thy groans
THE subject of the following elegy was high in your esteem, and enjoyed a large share of your affections. Scarce doth his memory need the assistance of the Muse to make it perpetual; but when she can at once pay her honours to the venerable dead, and by this address acknowledge the favours she has received from the living, it is a double pleasure to,
Your obliged humble servant,
YE virgin souls, whose sweet complaint*
Could teach Euphrates not to flow,†
Could Sion's ruin so divinely paint,
Array'd in beauty and in woe;
Awake, ye virgin souls, to mourn,
And with your tuneful sorrows dress a prophet's urn.
O could my lips or flowing eyes
But imitate such charming grief,
I'd teach the seas, and teach the skies,
Wailings, and sobs, and sympathies:
Nor should the stones or rocks be deaf;
Rocks shall have eyes, and stones have ears, While Gouge's death is mourn'd in melody and tears.
Heaven was impatient of our crimes,
And sent his minister of death
To scourge the bold rebellion of the times,
And to demand our prophet's breath:
He came, commission'd, for the fates
Of awful Mead, and charming Bates:
There he essay'd the vengeance first,
Then took a dismal aim, and brought great Gouge to dust.
Great Gouge to dust! how doleful is the sound! How vast the stroke is! and how wide the wound! Oh, painful stroke! distressing death!
A wound unmeasurably wide!
No vulgar mortal died
When he resign'd his breath.
The Muse that mourns a nation's fall
Should wait at Gouge's funeral;
Should mingle majesty and groans,
Such as she sings to sinking thrones,
And, in deep sounding numbers, tell
How Sion trembled when this pillar fell:
Sion grows weak, and England poor,
Nature herself, with all her store,
Can furnish such a pomp for death no more.
VOL. XXIII.
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