LINES ON THE DEATH OF WILLIAM SOTHEBY, ESQ. Joanna Baillie Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. Baillie, Joanna, 1762-1851. Fugitive Verses. By Joanna Baillie, author of “Dramas on the Passions,“ etc. London Edward Moxon, Dover Street. MDCCCXL. 1840 pp. 143-146.

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LINES ON THE DEATH OF WILLIAM SOTHEBY , ESQ . LEARNING and fancy were combined To stimulate his manly mind ; Open , generous and acute , Steady of purpose , in pursuit Ardent and hopeful ; all the while In child-like ignorance of guile . There are who say that envy lurks concealed Where genius strives , by slightest traits revealed , A truth , if truth it be , by him forgot , He turned his eyes away and saw it not . Success in others , frank and free , He hailed with words of friendly glee . Praise given to them he could not feel Did aught from his own portion steal ; And when offence , designed and rude , Did on his peaceful path obtrude , He soon forgave the paltry pain , Nor could resentment in his breast retain . His was the charity of right goodwill , That loves , confides , believes and thinks no ill . He , by his Saviour's noble precepts led , Still followed what was right with heart and head . Religion did with lofty honour dwell Within his bosom's sacred cell . But said I learning did in him agree With fancy , union rare ! how could it be ? His eighteenth year beheld him fondly cheering His warlike steed and on its back careering . A gay dragoon with spur on heel , And brandished blade of flashing steel ; With wealth at will , the world before him , To go where whim or fashion bore him . No friendly tutor by his side , His academic course to guide . No classic honours to invite , No emulation to excite . But , in default of these , his soul With native fire supplied the whole ; And neither Hall nor College claim Honour from him whose honoured name Shall henceforth with the highest stand , The most efficient scholars of our land . To him what meed of thanks the unlearned owe ! And even the learned , who best his merits know . With Homer , Virgil , Wieland , all converse Like true compatriots in his pliant verse . Pliant but elevated , graceful , bold , And worthy of the Bards of old . Nor will we thanklessly peruse The beauties of his native muse , Where lofty thoughts and feelings sweet , And moral truths commingling meet . Where fancy spreads her absent scene , The flowery mead , the forest green ; The plains , the mountain peaks , the fanes sublime , The ruins long revered of Italy's fair clime . Yea thanks be his , heart-given and kind , For all his pen has left behind ! Though bitters in his cup were mixed , And in his heart sharp arrows fixed , The current of his life ran clear ; With virtuous love and duteous children blest , He journeyed onward to the Christian's rest , And happy was his long career . Social and joyous to the end , Around him gathered many a friend , Whose minds his dear remembrance hold , Though seventy years and more His head had silvered o'er , As one who ne'er was old . Rejoicing in his well-earned fame , They oft repeat his honoured name , And as their thoughts on all his virtues dwell With sorrow , cheered and sweet , bid him a last farewell .