Say, pretty weeping figure, say,

For whom it is you mourn;

Or by whose ashes thus you stay,

And grieving grasp his Urn?

Ah! say, when living by what name

He call’d you, or what part

Might he of the affections claim,

Of thy fond feeling Heart?

In thy unstudied flowing dress

No widows Weeds appear;

Then ’tis not Turtle’s tenderness,

That doth demand a tear.

Nor on thy finger strait and long,

Appears the nuptial Ring;

Then ’tis not from a Mother’s pang,

That there thy Sorrows spring.

Ah! did one Parent bear ye both?

Was it one Milk ye drew?

Was he Companion of thy Youth?

And infant play-mate too?

Wou’d he find pleasure in thy mirth?

Wou’d he thy griefs console?

Or was his love as dews to Earth,

Refreshing to thy Soul?

Was he protector, brother, friend,

In every sense to thee?

Did blighting Death these comforts end

And rob thee of all three?

If so, fair figure, drink thy tears

In Luxury of Woe:

While mine drawn on by kindred cares,

In plenteous streams shall flow.

Inow once more invoke the sacred muse,

Though I must own she long has dormant lain,

Yet hope at present she will not refuse

Me to assist, in this my plaintive strain.

Beneath you spire in the adjacent vale,

There stands a lonely hospitable feat;

Where art, and nature, try who’ll most prevail,

To render each embellishment compleat:

The shorn hedge-rows, mantled o’er with green,

The shady limes, in nicest order plac’d;

The Beech, and Elm, encrease the rural scene;

And all around proclaim the owner’s taste.

Ther once I lived, and though in servile state,

My situation was to me no pain,

Nor did I then regret my sordid fate;

For in that house, I could not feel the chain:

My mistress, ever tender, good and kind,

I there received her mild commands each day;

Nor did it once disturb my peace of mind,

With utmost chearfulness her to obey.

An only daughter did the Mansion grace,

Whose sympathising soul and feeling heart,

To all around diffused nought but peace,

Nor could she bear to see another smart.

But ah! too soon, does lingering sickness come,

And by degrees consumes her tender prime;

For why the lady, in her youth and bloom,

Like frost-nipt blossoms, dropt before her time.

Thy banks, O Barrow, sure must be

The Muses choicest haunt;

Else why so pleasing thus to me,

Else why my Soul enchant!

To view thy dimpled surface here,

Fond fancy bids me stay;

But Servitude with brow austere,

Commands me straight away:

Were Lethe’s virtues in thy stream,

How freely wou’d I drink,

That not so much as on the name

Of Books, I e’er might think.

I can but from them learn to know

What’s misery compleat,

And feel more sensibly each blow,

Dealt by relentless fate.

In them I oft have pleasure found,

But now it’s all quite fled,

With fluttering heart, I lay me down,

And rise with aching head.

For such a turn, ill suits the sphere

Of life in which I move,

And rather does a load of care,

Than any comfort prove.

Thrice happy she condemned to move

Beneath the servile weight,

Whose thoughts ne’er soar one inch above,

The standard of her fate.

But far more happy is the soul,

Who feels the pleasing sense;

And can indulge without controul,

Each thought that flows from thence.

Since nought of these my portion is,

But the reverse of each;

That I shall taste but little bliss,

Experience doth me teach.

Cou’d cold insensibility,

Thro’ my whole frame take place;

Sure then from grief I might be free,

Yes, then I’d hope for peace.

The Publick papers this sad news doth tell,

Thy mortal part is numbered with the dead:

Laid in the silent grave, at ease to dwell;

But precious spirit, whither art thou fled?

Say, hast thou entered the Celestial gate,

Blest with the Crown, that’s to the Righteous due;

Or dost thou on thy darling daughter wait,

And watch her steps as guardian Angels do?

What, tho’ no fable Escutcheons grace thy Bier!

Nor crested Marble do thy virtues tell!

Yet, shall they ever flourish fresh and fair,

As the green turf, that o’er thy breast doth swell.

For thou wer’t all that justice cou’d commend,

Wer’t as the Turtle constant to thy mate;

A tender Father and a faithful friend;

Nor stood the poor, unheeded at thy gate.

Such as in servile station eat thy bread;

Thy courteous carriage tow’rds them, was so mild,

As fill’d their hearts with reverence, not dread;

For thou wert ever gentle, good and kind.

And tho’ thy Ships with Indian treasures fill’d,

Did thro’ the parted waves in grandeur ride;

Yet did thy meek, thy humble soul ne’er yield,

To aught like vanity, or sordid pride.

Thy morn, thy noon, and to thy latest eve,

Blameless as any born of Adam’s race;

With chearfulness thy mortal life did give,

To enter that of everlasting peace.

Ithee again invoke, thou Heaven-born maid!

Yes, I once more do thy assistance ask;

And if thou do’st refuse to lend thy aid;

My feeble pen’s unequal to the task.

To sing of Virtues quite to me unknown,

Save only information brought by fame,

Of real merit which to Heaven is flown,

And left behind a never dying name.

Scarce had the grey-ey’d morn sprang from above,

Scarce had the Lark his mattin song began;

When the kind Doctor full of truth and love,

Had rode abroad to see the bed-sick man.

For ever watchful o’er the weighty charge,

That was to him, by Providence assign’d;

His chiefest aim was to impart at large

Pure charity, and love, to all mankind.

When any doubts of sacred truths arose

The afflicted mind he’d instantly console,

For true reveal’d Religion he’d disclose,

And to the Saviour, re-unite the soul.

The Widow, and the orphan, when distress’d,

From his benevolence soon found relief;

For all their woes or anguish he redress’d,

And hush’d their sorrows, and appeas’d their grief.

What numbers of the indigent and poor,

From his kind hand receiv’d their daily bread;

For of his Wealth he never did make store;

But clothed the naked, and the hungry fed.

For many years he lived in Wedlock’s bands,

In which he ne’er had aught him to perplex;

For the kind Fair to whom he join’d his hand,

Was blest with all that’s pleasing in her sex.

And though dame Nature was right well inclin’d,

To deck her outward form with every grace;

Yet the more lasting beauties of the mind

By far out-shone the charms of her fair face.

In early youth, their tender souls were join’d,

By the soft ties of true and mutual love;

Which time had wrought to friendship so refin’d,

That nothing less than death could it remove.

But ah! that sad, that inauspicious day

Was set apart to end his precious life,

To lay him low, to moulder into clay,

And tear him from his fond and virtuous wife.

Now winter’s eve, deep clothed in midnight shade,

Which often had the imagination scared,

Is noontide fun in brightest beams arrayed,

When to the colour of her fate compar’d.

Her sorrows at this unexpected blow,

Upon this earth admits of no relief,

Save what from Reason and Religion flow;

’Tis they alone can palliate her grief.

Until her mortal part is done away;

Then may the Angels, and Arch-Angels wait,

And waft her soul to Realms of endless day,

To meet her love beyond the reach of fate.