TO SICKNESS. ELEGY II. John Delap 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. T116245 1122 K093079.001 Pearch, G. A collection of poems in four volumes. By several hands. Vol. I. [The second edition]. London printed for G. Pearch 1770 pp. 81-84. 4v. ; 8⁰.

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TO SICKNESS . ELEGY II . HOW blith the flowery graces of the Spring From nature's wardrobe come : and hark how gay Each glittering insect , hovering on the wing , Sings their glad welcome to the fields of May . They gaze , with greedy eye , each beauty o'er ; They suck the sweet breath of the blushing rose ; Sport in the gale , or sip the rainbow shower ; Their life's short day no pause of pleasure knows . Like their's , dread power , my chearful morn display'd The flattering promise of a golden noon , Till each gay cloud , that sportive nature spread , Died in the gloom of thy distemper'd frown . Yes , ere I told my two and twentieth year , Swift from thy quiver flew the deadly dart ; Harmless it past 'mid many a blithe compeer , And found its fated entrance near my heart . Pale as I lay beneath thy ebon wand , I saw them rove thro' pleasure's flowery field ; I saw health paint them with her rosy hand , Eager to burst my bonds , but forc'd to yield . Yet while this mortal cot of mouldering clay Shakes at the stroke of thy tremendous power , Ah must the transient tenant of a day Bear the rough blast of each tempestuous hour ! Say , shall the terrors thy pale flag unfolds , Too rigid queen ! unnerve the soul's bright powers , Till with a joyless smile the eye beholds Art's magic charms , and nature's fairy bowers . No , let me follow still , those bowers among , Her flowery footsteps , as the goddess goes ; Let me , just lifted 'bove th' unletter'd throng , Read the few books the learned few compose . And suffer , when pleasure awful pleasure calls The soul to share her frail companion's smart , Yet suffer me to taste the balm that falls , From friendship's tongue , so sweet upon the heart . Then , tho' each trembling nerve confess thy frown , Ev'n till this anxious being shall become But a brief name upon a little stone , Without one murmur I embrace my doom . For many a virtue , shelter'd from mankind , Lives calm with thee , and lord o'er each desire ; And many a feeble frame , whose mighty mind Each muse has touch'd with her immortal fire . Even Mr. Pope . he , sole terror of a venal age , The tuneful bard , whose philosophic soul , With such bright radiance glow'd on virtue's page , Learn'd many a lesson from thy moral school . He Mr. Gray . too , who " mounts and keeps his distant way , " His daring mind thy humanizing glooms Have temper'd with a melancholy ray , And taught to warble 'mid the village tombs . Yes , goddess , to thy temple's deep recess I come ; and lay for ever at its door The siren throng of follies numberless , Nor wish their flattering songs should sooth me more . Thy decent garb shall o'er my limbs be spread , Thy hand shall lead me to thy sober train , Who here retir'd , with pensive pleasure tread The silent windings of thy dark domain . Hither the cherub Charity shall fly From her bright orb , and brooding o'er my mind , For misery raise a sympathizing sigh , Pardon for foes , and love for humankind . Then while Ambition's trump , from age to age Its slaughter'd millions boasts ; while Fame shall rear Her deathless trophies o'er the bard and sage , Be mine the widow's sigh , the orphan's prayer .