In
MEMORY
of
the
Rt.
Hon.
Lord
Aubrey
Beauclerk
,
Who
was
slain
at
CARTHAGENA
.
(
Written
in
the
year
1743
,
at
the
request
of
his
Lady
.
)
Shall
so
much
worth
in
silence
pass
away
,
And
no
recording
muse
that
worth
display
?
Shall
public
spirit
like
the
private
die
,
The
coward
with
the
brave
promiscuous
lie
?
The
hero's
toils
should
be
the
muses
care
,
In
peace
their
guardian
,
and
their
shield
in
war
:
Alike
inspir'd
,
they
mutual
succours
lend
;
The
Muses
His
,
and
He
the
Muses
friend
.
To
me
the
solemn
lyre
you
reach
in
vain
,
The
simple
warbler
of
some
idle
strain
.
What
tho'
the
hero's
fate
the
lay
demands
,
What
tho'
impell'd
and
urg'd
by
your
commands
;
Yet
,
weak
of
flight
,
in
vain
I
prune
the
wing
,
And
,
diffident
of
voice
,
attempt
to
sing
.
What
dreadful
slaughter
on
the
western
coast
!
How
many
gallant
warriors
Britain
lost
,
A
British
muse
would
willingly
conceal
;
But
what
the
muse
would
hide
,
our
tears
reveal
.
Pensive
,
we
oft
recal
those
fatal
shores
,
Where
Carthagena
lifts
her
warlike
tow'rs
.
High
o'er
the
deep
th'
embattl'd
fortress
heaves
Its
awful
front
,
its
basis
in
the
waves
;
Without
impregnable
by
nature's
care
,
And
arm'd
within
with
all
the
rage
of
war
.
Deep
in
oblivion
sink
th'
ill-omen'd
hour
,
That
call'd
our
legions
to
the
baneful
shore
!
Where
death
,
in
all
her
horrid
pomp
array'd
,
O'er
the
pale
clime
her
direful
influ'nce
shed
.
Want
,
famine
,
war
,
and
pestilential
breath
,
All
act
subservient
to
the
rage
of
death
.
Those
whom
the
wave
,
or
fiercer
war
would
spare
,
Yeild
to
the
clime
,
and
sink
in
silence
there
:
No
friend
to
close
their
eyes
,
no
pitying
guest
To
drop
the
silent
tear
,
or
strike
the
pensive
breast
.
Here
Douglas
fell
,
the
gallant
and
the
brave
!
Here
much-lamented
Watson
found
a
grave
.
Here
,
early
try'd
,
and
acting
but
too
well
,
The
lov'd
,
ennobled
,
gen'rous
Beauclerk
fell
.
Just
as
the
spring
of
life
began
to
bloom
,
When
ev'ry
grace
grew
softer
on
the
tomb
;
In
all
that
health
and
energy
of
youth
,
Which
promis'd
honours
of
maturer
growth
;
When
round
his
head
the
warriour
laurel
sprung
,
And
temp'rance
brac'd
the
nerve
which
valour
strung
;
When
his
full
heart
expanded
to
the
goal
,
And
promis'd
victory
had
flush'd
his
soul
,
He
fell
!
—
His
country
lost
her
earliest
boast
;
His
family
a
faithful
guardian
lost
;
His
friend
a
safe
companion
;
and
his
wife
,
Her
last
resource
,
her
happiness
in
life
.
O
ever
honour'd
,
ever
happy
shade
!
How
well
hast
thou
thy
debt
to
virtue
paid
!
Brave
,
active
,
undismay'd
in
all
the
past
;
Compos'd
,
intrepid
,
steady
to
the
last
.
When
half
thy
limbs
,
and
more
than
half
was
lost
Of
life
,
thy
valour
still
maintain'd
it's
post
:
Gave
the
last
signal
After
both
his
legs
were
shot
off
.
See
the
account
of
his
death
in
the
prose-inscription
in
Westminster-Abbey
,
written
by
the
author
,
under
his
Lady's
directions
.
The
verse
by
Dr.
Young
.
for
thy
country's
good
,
And
,
dying
,
seal'd
it
with
thy
purest
blood
.
Say
,
what
is
Life
?
and
wherefore
was
it
giv'n
?
What
the
design
,
the
purpose
mark'd
by
Heav'n
?
Was
it
in
lux'ry
to
dissolve
the
span
,
To
raise
the
animal
,
and
sink
the
man
?
In
the
soft
bands
of
pleasure
,
idly
gay
,
To
frolic
the
immortal
gift
away
?
To
tell
the
tale
,
or
flow'ry
wreath
to
bind
,
Then
shoot
away
,
and
leave
no
track
behind
?
Arise
no
duties
from
the
social
tie
?
No
kindred
virtues
from
our
native
sky
?
No
truths
from
reason
,
and
the
thought
intense
?
Nothing
result
from
soul
,
but
all
from
sense
?
O
thoughtless
reptile
,
Man
!
—
Born
!
yet
ask
why
?
Truly
,
for
something
serious
—
Born
to
die
.
Knowing
this
truth
,
can
we
be
wife
too
soon
?
And
this
once
known
,
sure
something's
to
be
done
—
To
live's
to
suffer
;
act
,
is
to
exist
;
And
life
,
at
best
,
a
trial
,
not
a
feast
:
Our
bus'ness
virtue
;
and
when
that
is
done
,
We
cannot
sit
too
late
,
or
rise
too
soon
.
"
Virtue
!
—
What
is
it
?
—
Whence
does
it
arise
!
"
Ask
of
the
brave
,
the
social
,
and
the
wife
;
Of
those
who
study'd
for
the
gen'ral
good
,
Of
those
who
sought
,
and
purchas'd
it
with
blood
;
Of
those
who
build
,
or
plant
,
or
who
design
,
Ev'n
those
who
dig
the
soil
,
or
work
the
mine
.
If
yet
not
clearly
seen
,
or
understood
;
Ask
the
humane
,
the
pious
,
and
the
good
.
To
no
one
station
,
stage
,
or
part
confin'd
,
No
single
act
of
body
,
or
of
mind
;
But
whate'er
lovely
,
just
,
or
fit
we
call
,
The
fair
result
,
the
congregate
of
all
.
The
active
mind
,
ascending
by
degrees
,
Its
various
ties
,
relations
,
duties
sees
:
Examines
parts
,
thence
rising
to
the
whole
,
Sees
the
connexion
,
chain
,
and
spring
of
soul
;
Th'
eternal
source
!
from
whose
pervading
ray
We
caught
the
flame
,
and
kindled
into
day
.
Hence
the
collected
truths
coercive
rise
,
Oblige
as
nat'ral
,
or
as
moral
ties
.
Son
,
brother
,
country
,
friend
demand
our
care
;
The
common
bounty
all
partake
,
must
share
.
Hence
virtue
in
its
source
,
and
in
its
end
,
To
God
as
relative
,
to
Man
as
friend
.
O
friend
to
truth
!
to
virtue
!
to
thy
kind
!
O
early
call'd
to
leave
these
ties
behind
!
How
shall
the
muse
her
vary'd
tribute
pay
,
Indulge
the
tear
,
and
not
debase
the
lay
!
Come
,
fair
example
of
heroic
truth
!
Descend
,
and
animate
the
British
youth
:
Now
,
when
their
country's
wrongs
demand
their
care
,
And
proud
Iberia
meditates
the
war
:
Now
,
while
the
trumpet
sounds
her
shrill
alarms
,
And
calls
forth
all
her
gen'rous
sons
to
arms
;
Pour
all
thy
genius
,
all
thy
martial
fire
O'er
the
brave
youth
,
and
ev'ry
breast
inspire
.
Say
,
this
is
virtue
,
glory
,
honour
,
fame
,
To
rise
from
sloth
,
and
catch
the
martial
flame
.
When
fair
occasion
calls
their
vigour
forth
,
To
meet
the
call
,
and
vindicate
its
worth
:
To
rouse
,
to
kindle
,
animate
,
combine
,
Revenge
their
country's
wrongs
,
and
think
on
Thine
.
Go
,
happy
shade
!
to
where
the
good
,
and
blest
Enjoy
eternal
scenes
of
bliss
and
rest
:
While
we
below
thy
sudden
farewel
mourn
,
Collect
thy
virtues
,
weeping
o'er
the
urn
;
Recal
their
scatter'd
lustre
as
they
past
,
And
see
them
all
united
in
the
last
.
So
the
bright
orb
,
which
gilds
the
groves
and
streams
,
Mildly
diffusive
of
his
golden
beams
;
Drawn
to
a
point
,
his
strong
concenter'd
rays
More
fulgent
glow
,
and
more
intensely
blaze
.
And
Thou
!
late
partner
of
his
softer
hour
,
Ordain'd
but
just
to
meet
,
and
meet
no
more
;
Say
,
with
the
virtues
how
each
grace
combin'd
!
How
brave
,
yet
social
!
how
resolv'd
,
yet
kind
!
With
manners
how
sincere
!
polite
with
ease
!
How
diffident
!
and
yet
how
sure
to
please
!
Was
he
of
ought
but
infamy
afraid
?
Was
he
not
modest
as
the
blushing
maid
?
Asham'd
to
flatter
,
eager
to
commend
;
A
gen'rous
master
,
and
a
steady
friend
.
Humane
to
all
,
but
warm'd
when
virtuous
grief
,
Or
silent
modesty
,
imply'd
relief
.
Pure
in
his
principles
,
unshaken
,
just
;
True
to
his
God
,
and
faithful
to
his
trust
.
Beauclerk
,
farewel
!
—
If
,
with
thy
virtues
warm'd
,
And
not
too
fondly
,
or
too
rashly
charm'd
,
I
strive
the
tributary
dirge
to
pay
,
And
form
the
pinion
to
the
hasty
lay
;
The
feeble
,
but
well-meaning
flight
excuse
:
Perhaps
hereafter
some
more
gen'rous
muse
,
Touch'd
with
thy
fate
,
with
genius
at
command
,
May
snatch
the
pencil
from
the
female
hand
;
And
give
the
perfect
portrait
,
bold
and
free
,
In
numbers
such
as
Young's
,
and
worthy
Thee
.