ELEGY I. ON THE Death of S. FOOTE, Esq. Thomas Holcroft Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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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. T107178 K086061.000 Holcroft, Thomas, 1745-1809. Elegies: I. On the death of Samuel Foote, Esq. II. On age. By Thomas Holcroft, ... London printed for J. Bew 1777 pp. []-15. 24p.; 4⁰.

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ELEGY I. ON THE Death of S. FOOTE , Esq.
ELEGY . I. AH ! what avails the fancied Lore of Man , Or all the envied Gifts the Gods bestow ? His Wisdom Folly , Length of Time a Span , His Life is Vanity , his Death is Woe ! II . Could Wit protect , had Genius power to save , Did they immortal Life with Fame impart , Alexis ne'er had known a dreary Grave , Death ne'er had drench'd an Arrow in his Heart . III . Mourn , mourn , ye Spirits , who delight in Mirth ; In yonder Tomb Alexis breathless lies ; The Soul of Wit , that gave your Laughter Birth , Inhabits , once again , her native Skies . IV . How fix'd those Features which so well pourtray'd The Cobweb Virtues of the canting Saint ; How dull those Eyes that could so well upbraid , And Mimas ' Vice in Mimas ' Manner paint . V. Weep , ye who bend beneath the savage Rod Of stern Oppression , spurning human Laws , Your Champion , cover'd by yon senseless Sod , Hears not your Griefs , or sure he'd plead your Cause . VI . Rejoice , ye Sons of Rapine ; Io ! your Foe , Who dragg'd your dark Misdeeds to public Shame , Your scourge is fled , no longer shall ye know The Stings of guilty Terrot at his Name . VII . Where's now the pliant Muscle big with Whim , The Eye that fill'd with Laughter ev'ry Face , The various Voice , the oft-distorted Limb , And all the mirth-fed Features of Grimace ? VIII . How ghastly now his Grin ! No latent Spark Of new-found Wit sheds Dimples o'er his Cheek ; No heavy Blockhead dreads himself the Mark On whom the biting Gibe shall shortly break . IX . Where now the Shouts that Theatres have rent , While Laughter roar'd and begg'd to be reliev'd ? Ah ! where the Plaudits every Hand has sent , When Humour brought forth all that Wit conceiv'd ? X. Mourn , every MUSE , in Elegiac Song , In Metre melancholic let if flow ; Adown the doleful Breeze your Griefs prolong In Wails , and Sighs , and Tears , shrill sad and slow . XI . But oh ! THALIA , be thy Sorrows loud , Tho' all-unus'd to Accents so severe ; Ah ! shed the Drop most precious o'er his Shroud , For sure a Son like him deserves a Tear . XII . Full well he once was known thy dear Delight ; Thou ne'er deny'd'st whate'er he deign'd to ask , Thy choicest Pen was his whene'er he'd write , And his , whene'er he'd act , thy choicest Mask . XIII . Ye shagged SATYRS leave the deep Recess , The dark close Woodland , and the braky Dell ; Quit every pointed Weapon of Redress , Hear ! shriek and hear ! your Fav'rite's passing Bell . XIV . No more we catch your Meaning from his Eye , No more he wields the many-barbed Dart , Or guides your galling Arrows as they fly , To strike the guilty Sinner thro' the Heart . XV. Ye light-wing'd SPRITES , who sport in Fancy's Dome , With Freaks and Bounds in antic Circles play , Attend your kindred Genius to his Home , Proclaim him welcome to the Realms of Day . XVI . Ye SYLPHS , who down the Sun-beams love to flit , And round the Poet's Temples Laurel twine , Or , jocund , on the dancing Ignis sit , Or quaff from azure Streams aetherial Wine , XVII . Forsake your Sports ; and , if you know to weep , If e'er your silken Lids sustain such Dew , Here pour your Tears , — behold , in endless Sleep , The Swain who all your Haunts and Frolics knew ! XVIII . Ye FAUNS and FAIRIES , wheresoe'er ye rove , O'er Hill , o'er Dale , or mid the Virgin Throng ; Ye NYMPHS , ye DRYADS , of the Brook , the Grove , Who sing so sweet in many a witching Song ; XIX . Come , FANCY'S OFFSPRING , every CHILD of VERSE , Whatever Clime your printless Feet shall tread ; Assemble ALL , — alternate Griefs rehearse , In solemn Song funereal Honours shed . XX . And as ye pass the Mountain , Mead , or Dell , Where lavish Nature strews her Gifts profuse , From Hawthorn's Point , Grub's Beard , or Lilly's Bell , Collect the Sweets that most delight the Muse . XXI . Bring every Spell and Charm , each Fruit and Flower , Each Herb , each Plant to Poet fragrant found ; With all due Rites erect the Cypress Bower , And bless the Turf , and consecrate the Ground . XXII . Then while coy Phoebe grants her glimm'ring Beam , And flitting Ghosts entrance the fearful Eye , On broken Vows while Maids , forsaken , dream , And start and weep with many a mournful Sigh ; XXIII . While wanton Rear-Mouse winds her mazy Rout , And squeaks , to list'ning Glow-Worm , antic Song ; Your Vigils keep — with shrill and sudden Shout Scare each unhallow'd Foot from forth your Throng . XXIV . Enough , fair FANCY , lightly bound away ; — Advance PHILOSOPHY . Lo ! TRUTH appears , Who , with her sober Mien , and moral Lay , Foretels the sad Events of future Years . XXV . Young Ammon Alexander the Great . , once admir'd , belov'd , obey'd , Grasp'd half the Globe , and daft the Hours away ; Crowns gave for Playthings , Slaves of Monarchs made , Then dropt a little Lump of lifeless Clay . XXVI . Now what avails the fair historic Page , Where all his Acts are blazon'd to the World ? What tho' th'Antipodes once selt his Rage , And 'gainst the Poles his Thunderbolts were hurl'd ? XXVII . Had he not better far , in peaceful Lore , Turn'd o'er the moral Page , and smil'd serene , Than , thus delighting in the Battle's Roar , T'have made the shrieking World one tragic Scene ? XXVIII . Lost is his Valour ; lost , to him , his Fame ; He heeds not , hears not , RUMOUR'S fickle Blast ; And all who live to hear and read his Name Are posting after him with heedless Haste . XXIX . With fancied Dignity important grown , Man acts as tho' his Follies were to last ; Builds , plants , or mounts , perhaps , a thorn-strew'd Throne , Dies , rots , and gives the Worms a short Repast . XXX . What melancholy Scenes salute his Eyes , Prophetic Lessons of approaching Fate ; Still he pursues each Phantom as it flies , And loses Happiness in finding State . XXXI . Blest be the Sons of Science , Nymph sublime ! She lures her Children to the calm Retreat , And solves the Problem , and suggests the Rhyme , And to the dulcet Sound directs the Feet . XXXII . She prompts the Song to Love , to Peace , and Joy ; The matchless Music of Content she chants ; Her heav'n-born Beauties ne'er her Lovers cloy , She knows no Sorrows , for she feels no Wants . XXXIII . She philosophic Temp'rance loves to chear , And bids to shun , like Death , imagin'd Ills ; Their Sweets are bitter thro' the plenteous Year Who know no Medium to their wayward Wills . XXXIV . Blest be Alexis ! Science loves the Name ; He well approv'd him of her darling Race ; And be that Wretch accurst who damns his Fame , Or would his little Follies backward trace !