An ELEGY on the Death of an amiable YOUNG LADY. James Boswell Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
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Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T32518 K035585.000 Boswell, James, 1740-1795. An elegy on the death of an amiable young lady. With an epistle from Menalcas to Lycidas. To which are prefixed, three critical recommendatory letters. Edinburgh printed by A. Donaldson and J. Reid. For Alex. Donaldson 1761 pp. 19-22. 24p.; 4⁰.

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An ELEGY on the Death of an amiable YOUNG LADY . WHILE others sing the heroes glorious fate , And tune to warlike strains the sounding lyre , Their noble lives , their fearless deaths relate , Their gallant deeds , which wake the Muses fire ; While British bards , to Wolfe's immortal praise , Rehearse his victories and fatal doom ; And as his monument the sculptors raise , Spread freshest garlands on their warrior's tomb : Let me , whose humbler muse hath ne'er aspir'd To such majestic , such exalting strains , By elegiac song be now inspir'd , And mourn a virgin snatched from these plains . Sweet wast thou , as the op'ning summer's rose , Too just an emblem of thee , lovely maid , Which in the morning buds , at mid-day blows , But withers by the chilly ev'ning's shade . Calm and serene thou led thy peaceful life , Religion's sacred task thy only boast ; Unknown to stormy passion , or to strife , Thou liv'd in ev'ry good , in friendship most . Amid the joyful gaiety of youth , The Christian's dignity thou still preserv'd , Trod all the paths of piety and truth , Nor in thy actions nor thy precepts swerv'd . Snatch'd from this low , inhospitable clime , While fortune smil'd upon thy chearful head , Ev'n in the pride and flow'r of youthful prime Thou number'd lies , among the numerous dead . Thy lovely sisters , and thy aged sire , In deep distress , thy hapless fate deplore ; Praise thy past life , and , while they praise , admire And wail their charming friend , alas ! no more . No costly monument adorns thy tomb , No panegyric spreads thy humble fame ; Nor verses , carv'd upon the sculptur'd dome , Transmit to after times thy virtuous name . Oft as the circling sun returns the day On which thou mounted to th' realms of rest , Unto thy lonely grave I'll yearly hie , And bid the turf lie easy on thy breast . I'll sprinkle flowers of ev'ry richest dye , And deck thy grave with wreaths of liveliest hue , Then shed a tear , and breathe the heaving sigh To sacred friendship ; sure so much is due . Farewell , my charmer , peace attend thy rest , Thou , who in virtue did so much excel ; For this I hail thee blest , — supremely blest . Adieu , — adieu , — a long — a last farewell .