ON THE DEATH OF LADY ANSON . ADDRESSED TO THE EARL OF HARDWICKE , HER FATHER , 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 !