ELEGY. ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY. Sir James Marriott 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 1137 K093079.004 Pearch, G. A collection of poems in four volumes. By several hands. Vol. IV. [The second edition]. London printed for G. Pearch 1770 pp. 24-27. 4v. ; 8⁰.

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ELEGY . ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY . BY THE SAME . YES , it is past ; the fatal stroke is given . Our pious sorrows own the hand of heaven . How short our joys ! incumber'd life how vain ! Still vex'd with evil's never-ceasing train ; While roll the hours which lead each fleeting year , Each asks a sigh , and each demands a tear . O'er pleasing scenes the mind with rapture roves , Grasps in idea all its hopes or loves : Snatch'd from its view the pleasing scenes decay , And the fair vision melts in shades away . Of youth , of beauty , and of wit the boast , O lov'd for ever , and too early lost , Sweet maid , for thee now mingling with the dead , Her sacred griefs the tuneful Muse shall shed ; The soft remembrance of thy charms to save She plants with all her bays thy hallow'd grave . Ye too , companions of her happier days , Heirs of her charms , and rivals of her praise , Amid the circles of the young and gay Your years unheeded urge their stealing way , While mixt with pleasure's ever-smiling train , Ye know no sorrows , and ye feel no pain ; Yet , when no more the pulse tumultuous beats , Nor the pleas'd sense each flattering tale repeats , Let calm reflection the sad moral teach , That bliss below evades our eager reach ; That virtue only grants the real charm , Gives wit to win , and beauty power to warm ; And tho' like hers , whose recent fate we mourn , And ask your pity for a sister's urn , Your beauties shine in all their bloom confest , 'Mid gazing slaves contending to be blest , Yet think like hers may soon those beauties fade ; Like hers your glories in the dust be laid . Time's hardy steps in silence swift advance , Dim the bright ray that darts the fiery glance , And Age , dread herald of Death's awful reign , Blasts every grace , and freezes every vein . When with a mother's joy , a mother's fear , The thoughtful parent dropt the silent tear , Gaz'd on her child , and saw new beauties rise , Glow in her cheeks , and sparkle in her eyes , In expectation plann'd each hope of life , The sister , daughter , mother , friend , and wife ; Ah fleeting joys ! how soon those hopes were o'er ! We doom'd to mourn , and she to charm no more . The waning moon shall fill her wasted horn , And nature's radiance gild the orient morn , The smiling spring with charms renew'd appear , The sleeping blossoms haste to deck the year , But bloom no more this fair departed flower , Nor wak'd by genial sun , nor vernal shower . How vain , alas ! was all thy father's art , Vain were the sighs which swell'd thy mother's heart . Again I see thee just expiring lie , Pale thy cold lip , half clos'd thy languid eye , Thy guardian Innocence beside thee stands , And patient Faith uplifts her holy hands , Teach thee with smiles to meet the stroke of Death , Calm all thy pangs , and ease thy struggling breath . Resign'd , dear maid , to earth's maternal breast , May sister Seraphs chant thy soul to rest . There shall the constant Amaranthus bloom , And wings of Zephyrs shed the morn's perfume . O'er thy sad hearse , fair emblems of the dead , By virgin hands are dying lilies shed . The weeping Graces shall thy tomb surround ; The Loves with broken darts shall strew the ground ; In vain for thee they wak'd the fond desires , Wove myrtle wreaths , and fann'd their purer fires . The youthful God , who joins the nuptial bands , In vain expecting , near his altar stands ; Fate spread the cloud : his torch extinct , he flies , And veils with saffron robe his streaming eyes . Yet O , while crown'd with never-fading flowers , Thy spirit wanders thro' Elysian bowers , If plaintive sounds of mortal grief below Reach the blest seats , and waft our tender woe , Hear , happy shade ; while thus our mortal lays This monument of soft affection raise . By gentle ties of kindred birth allied , The Muse , that sports on Camus' willow'd side , In Memory's lofty dome inscribes thy name , And with thy beauties strives to mix her fame .