ELEGY XV. ON THE DEATH OF MARIA GUNNING, Countess of Coventry. WRITTEN IN MDCCLX. BY THE REV. WILLIAM MASON, M. A. THE midnight clock has toll'd; and hark, the bell Yes, COVENTRY is dead. Attend the strain, With hearts as gay, and faces half as fair: For she was fair beyond your brightest bloom: 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, Each look, each motion wak'd a new-born grace, 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, Early to lose; while, born on busy wing, Think of her Fate! revere the heav'nly hand To give Reflection time, with lenient art, 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, 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, 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. The breeze of bliss, that fills your silken sail : On Pleasure's glitt'ring stream ye gayly steer roar. 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 crowd. Is it his grasp of Empire to extend ? And why must murder'd myriads lose their all, With famish'd frown, on this affrighted ball, 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 Sceptics, know, th' Almighty mind, Nor shall the pile of Hope, his Mercy rear'd, |