ON
THE
DEATH
OF
LADY
ANSON
.
ADDRESSED
TO
THE
EARL
OF
HARDWICKE
,
HER
FA
THER
,
1761.
BY
THE
SAME
.
O
CROWN'D
with
honor
,
blest
with
length
of
days
,
Thou
whom
the
wise
revere
,
the
worthy
praise
;
Just
guardian
of
those
laws
thy
voice
explain'd
,
And
meriting
all
titles
thou
hast
gain'd
—
Tho'
still
the
fairest
from
heaven's
bounty
flow
;
For
good
and
great
no
monarch
can
bestow
:
Yet
thus
,
of
health
,
of
fame
,
of
friends
possest
,
No
fortune
,
Hardwicke
,
is
sincerely
blest
.
All
humankind
are
sons
of
sorrow
born
:
The
great
must
suffer
,
and
the
good
must
mourn
.
For
say
,
can
Wisdom's
self
,
what
late
was
thine
,
Can
Fortitude
,
without
a
sigh
,
resign
?
Ah
no
!
when
Love
,
when
Reason
,
hand
in
hand
,
O'er
the
cold
urn
consenting
Mourners
stand
,
The
firmest
heart
dissolves
to
softness
here
;
And
Piety
applauds
the
falling
tear
.
Those
sacred
drops
,
by
virtuous
weakness
shed
,
Adorn
the
living
,
while
they
grace
the
dead
:
From
tender
thought
their
source
unblam'd
they
draw
,
By
Heaven
approv'd
,
and
true
to
Nature's
law
.
When
his
lov'd
Child
the
Roman
could
not
save
,
Immortal
Tully
,
from
an
early
grave
Tullia
died
about
the
age
of
two
and
thirty
.
She
is
celebrated
for
her
filial
piety
;
and
for
having
added
,
to
the
usual
graces
of
her
sex
,
the
more
solid
accomplishments
of
knowledge
and
polite
letters
.
,
No
common
forms
his
home-felt
passion
kept
;
The
sage
,
the
patriot
,
in
the
parent
,
wept
.
And
O
!
by
grief
ally'd
,
as
join'd
in
fame
,
The
same
thy
loss
,
thy
sorrows
are
the
same
.
She
whom
the
Muses
,
whom
the
Loves
deplore
,
Even
she
,
thy
pride
and
pleasure
,
is
no
more
:
In
bloom
of
years
,
in
all
her
virtue's
bloom
,
Lost
to
thy
hopes
,
and
silent
in
the
tomb
.
O
Season
mark'd
by
mourning
and
despair
!
Thy
blasts
how
fatal
to
the
young
and
fair
?
For
vernal
freshness
,
for
the
balmy
breeze
,
Thy
tainted
winds
came
pregnant
with
disease
:
Sick
Nature
sunk
before
the
mortal
breath
,
That
scatter'd
fever
,
agony
,
and
death
!
What
funerals
has
thy
cruel
ravage
spread
!
What
eyes
have
flow'd
!
what
noble
bosoms
bled
!
Here
let
Reflection
fix
her
sober
view
:
O
think
,
who
suffer
,
and
who
sigh
with
you
.
See
,
rudely
snatch'd
,
in
all
her
pride
of
charms
,
Bright
Granby
from
a
youthful
husband's
arms
!
In
climes
far
distant
,
see
that
husband
mourn
;
His
arms
revers'd
,
his
recent
laurel
torn
!
Behold
again
,
at
Fate's
imperious
call
,
In
one
dread
instant
blooming
Lincoln
fall
!
See
her
lov'd
Lord
with
speechless
anguish
bend
!
And
,
mixing
tears
with
his
,
thy
noblest
friend
,
Thy
Pelham
turn
on
heaven
his
streaming
eye
:
Again
in
Her
,
he
sees
a
Brother
die
.
And
He
,
who
long
,
unshaken
and
serene
,
Had
Death
,
in
each
dire
form
of
terror
,
seen
,
Thro'
worlds
unknown
,
o'er
unknown
oceans
tost
,
By
Love
subdu'd
,
now
weeps
a
Consort
lost
:
Now
,
sunk
to
fondness
,
all
the
man
appears
,
His
front
dejected
,
and
his
soul
in
tears
!
Yet
more
:
nor
thou
the
muse's
voice
disdain
,
Who
fondly
tries
to
soothe
a
Father's
pain
—
Let
thy
calm
eye
survey
the
suffering
ball
:
See
kingdoms
round
thee
verging
to
their
fall
!
What
spring
had
promis'd
,
and
what
autumn
yields
,
The
bread
of
thousands
ravish'd
from
their
fields
!
See
youth
and
age
,
th'ignoble
and
the
great
,
Swept
to
one
grave
,
in
one
promiscuous
fate
!
Hear
Europe
groan
!
hear
all
her
nations
mourn
!
And
be
a
private
wound
with
patience
borne
.
Think
too
:
and
Reason
will
confirm
the
thought
:
Thy
cares
,
for
Her
,
are
to
their
period
brought
.
Yes
,
She
,
fair
pattern
to
a
failing
age
,
With
wit
,
chastis'd
,
with
sprightly
temper
,
sage
;
Whom
each
endearing
name
could
recommend
,
Whom
all
became
,
wife
,
sister
,
daughter
,
friend
,
Unwarp'd
by
folly
,
and
by
vice
unstain'd
,
The
prize
of
virtue
has
,
for
ever
gain'd
!
From
life
escap'd
,
and
safe
on
that
calm
shore
Where
sin
,
and
pain
,
and
error
are
no
more
,
She
now
no
change
,
nor
you
a
fear
can
feel
:
Death
,
to
her
fame
,
has
fix'd
th'
eternal
seal
!