AN
ELEGY
,
On
the
DEATH
of
a
LADY
.
Written
in
1760.
By
WILLIAM
MASON
,
M.A.
THE
midnight
clock
has
toll'd
;
and
hark
,
the
bell
Of
Death
beats
slow
!
heard
ye
the
note
profound
?
It
pauses
now
;
and
now
,
with
rising
knell
,
Flings
to
the
hollow
gale
its
sullen
sound
.
Yes
***
is
dead
.
Attend
the
strain
,
Daughters
of
Albion
!
Ye
that
,
light
as
air
,
So
oft
have
tript
in
her
fantastic
train
,
With
hearts
as
gay
,
and
faces
half
as
fair
:
For
she
was
fair
beyond
your
brightest
bloom
:
(
This
Envy
owns
,
since
now
her
bloom
is
fled
)
Fair
as
the
Forms
that
,
wove
in
Fancy's
loom
,
Float
in
light
vision
round
the
Poet's
head
.
Whene'er
with
soft
serenity
she
smil'd
,
Or
caught
the
orient
blush
of
quick
surprize
,
How
sweetly
mutable
,
how
brightly
wild
,
The
liquid
lustre
darted
from
her
eyes
?
Each
look
,
each
motion
wak'd
a
new-born
grace
,
That
o'er
her
form
its
transient
glory
cast
:
Some
lovelier
wonder
soon
usurp'd
the
place
,
Chas'd
by
a
charm
still
lovelier
than
the
last
.
That
bell
again
!
It
tells
us
what
she
is
:
On
what
she
was
no
more
the
strain
prolong
:
Luxuriant
Fancy
pause
:
an
hour
like
this
Demands
the
tribute
of
a
serious
Song
.
MARIA
claims
it
from
that
sable
bier
,
Where
cold
and
wan
the
slumberer
rests
her
head
;
In
still
small
whispers
to
reflection's
ear
,
She
breathes
the
solemn
dictates
of
the
Dead
.
O
catch
the
awful
notes
,
and
lift
them
loud
;
Proclaim
the
theme
,
by
Sage
,
by
Fool
rever'd
;
Hear
it
,
ye
Young
,
ye
Vain
,
ye
Great
,
ye
Proud
!
'Tis
Nature
speaks
,
and
Nature
will
be
heard
.
Yes
,
ye
shall
hear
,
and
tremble
as
you
hear
,
While
,
high
with
health
,
your
hearts
exulting
leap
:
Ev'n
in
the
midst
of
pleasure's
mad
career
,
The
mental
Monitor
shall
wake
and
weep
.
For
say
,
than
***'s
propitious
star
,
What
brighter
planet
on
your
births
arose
;
Or
gave
of
Fortune's
gifts
an
ampler
share
,
In
life
to
lavish
,
or
by
death
to
lose
!
Early
to
lose
;
while
,
born
on
busy
wing
,
Ye
sip
the
nectar
of
each
varying
bloom
:
Nor
fear
,
while
basking
in
the
beams
of
spring
,
The
wintry
storm
that
sweeps
you
to
the
tomb
;
Think
of
her
Fate
!
revere
the
heav'nly
hand
That
led
her
hence
,
though
soon
,
by
steps
so
slow
;
Long
at
her
couch
Death
took
his
patient
stand
,
And
menac'd
oft
,
and
oft
withheld
the
blow
:
To
give
Reflection
time
,
with
lenient
art
,
Each
fond
delusion
from
her
soul
to
steal
;
Teach
her
from
Folly
peaceably
to
part
,
And
wean
her
from
a
world
she
lov'd
so
well
.
Say
,
are
ye
sure
his
Mercy
shall
extend
To
you
so
long
a
span
?
Alas
,
ye
sigh
:
Make
then
,
while
yet
ye
may
,
your
God
your
friend
,
And
learn
with
equal
ease
to
sleep
or
die
!
Nor
think
the
Muse
,
whose
sober
voice
ye
hear
,
Contracts
with
bigot
frown
her
sullen
brow
;
Casts
round
Religion's
orb
the
mists
of
fear
,
Or
shades
with
horrors
,
what
with
smiles
should
glow
.
No
;
she
would
warm
you
with
seraphic
fire
,
Heirs
as
ye
are
of
heav'n's
eternal
day
;
Would
bid
you
boldly
to
that
heav'n
aspire
,
Not
sink
and
slumber
in
your
cells
of
clay
.
Know
,
ye
were
form'd
to
range
yon
azure
field
,
In
yon
aethereal
founts
of
bliss
to
lave
;
Force
then
,
secure
in
Faith's
protecting
shield
,
The
Sting
from
Death
,
the
Vict'ry
from
the
Grave
.
Is
this
the
bigot's
rant
?
Away
ye
Vain
,
Your
hopes
,
your
fears
in
doubt
,
in
dulness
steep
:
Go
sooth
your
souls
in
sickness
,
grief
,
or
pain
,
With
the
sad
solace
of
eternal
sleep
.
Yet
will
I
praise
you
,
triflers
as
ye
are
,
More
than
those
Preachers
of
your
fav'rite
creed
,
Who
proudly
swell
the
brazen
throat
of
War
,
Who
form
the
Phalanx
,
bid
the
battle
bleed
;
Nor
wish
for
more
:
who
conquer
,
but
to
die
.
Hear
,
Folly
,
hear
;
and
triumph
in
the
tale
:
Like
you
,
they
reason
;
not
,
like
you
,
enjoy
The
breeze
of
bliss
,
that
fills
your
silken
sail
:
On
Pleasure's
glitt'ring
stream
ye
gayly
steer
Your
little
course
to
cold
oblivion's
shore
:
They
dare
the
storm
,
and
,
through
th'inclement
year
,
Stem
the
rough
surge
,
and
brave
the
torrent's
roar
.
NOTE
.
In
a
book
of
French
verses
,
entitled
Oeuvres
du
Philosophe
de
sans
Souci
,
and
lately
reprinted
at
Berlin
by
authority
,
under
the
title
of
Poesies
Diverses
,
may
be
found
an
epistle
to
marshal
KEITH
,
writ
ten
professedly
against
the
immortality
of
the
Soul
.
By
way
of
specimen
of
the
whole
,
take
the
following
lines
:
De
l'avenir
,
cher
KEITH
,
jugeons
par
le
passé
;
Comme
avant
que
je
fusse
il
n'avoit
point
pensé
,
De
meme
,
apres
ma
mort
,
quand
toutes
mes
parties
Par
le
corruption
seront
aneanties
,
Par
un
meme
destin
il
ne
pensera
plus
;
Non
,
rien
n'est
plus
certain
,
soyons-en
convaincu
,
&c.
It
is
to
this
epistle
,
that
the
rest
of
the
Elegy
alludes
.
Is
it
for
Glory
?
that
just
Fate
denies
.
Long
must
the
warrior
moulder
in
his
shroud
,
E'er
from
her
trump
the
heav'n-breath'd
accents
rise
,
That
lift
the
Hero
from
the
fighting
croud
.
Is
it
his
grasp
of
Empire
to
extend
?
To
curb
the
fury
of
insulting
foes
?
Ambition
,
cease
:
the
idle
contest
end
:
'Tis
but
a
Kingdom
thou
canst
win
or
lose
.
And
why
must
murder'd
myriads
lose
their
all
,
(
If
Life
be
all
)
why
desolation
lour
,
With
famish'd
frown
,
on
this
affrighted
ball
,
That
thou
may'st
flame
the
meteor
of
an
hour
?
Go
wiser
ye
,
that
flutter
Life
away
,
Crown
with
the
mantling
Juice
the
goblet
high
;
Weave
the
light
dance
,
with
festive
freedom
gay
,
And
live
your
moment
,
since
the
next
ye
die
.
Yet
know
,
vain
Scepticks
,
know
,
th'Almighty
mind
,
Who
breath'd
on
Man
a
portion
of
his
fire
,
Bad
his
free
Soul
,
by
earth
nor
time
confin'd
,
To
Heav'n
,
to
Immortality
aspire
.
Nor
shall
the
Pile
of
Hope
,
his
Mercy
rear'd
,
By
vain
Philosophy
be
e'er
destroy'd
:
Eternity
,
by
all
or
wish'd
or
fear'd
,
Shall
be
by
all
or
suffer'd
or
enjoy'd
.