Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, AN ELEGY ON AN INFANT, by THOMAS WARTON THE ELDER



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

AN ELEGY ON AN INFANT, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Come, shepherds, on this grave your flourets
Last Line: In safety listens to the distant shrieks.
Subject(s): Death - Children; Grief; Innocence; Lament; Mourning; Nature; Death - Babies; Sorrow; Sadness; Bereavement


COME, Shepherds, on this Grave your Flourets spread,
Hantonia's Hope the little Alcon's dead:
I saw stern Death his cruel Mandate bring,
And heard the Raven clap his fatal Wing;
Thrice at dead Midnight shriek'd the Owl aloud,
While dim then wav'd a visionary Shroud.
Hence in deep Grotts, and twilight Shades along
The weeping Wood-nymphs sigh a sorrowing Song:
The sad Napëans tear their golden Locks,
Lone Eccho wand'ring on sequester'd Rocks,
By mournful Pauses speaks the pitying Tale,
"Alcon is dead——lament, each Hill and Dale!"—
So Mysia's melancholy Mountains mourn'd,
And Hylas lost the Meads and Woods return'd:
Slow crept Ascanius with a plaintive Tone,
In Consort murm'ring to Alcides' Moan.

Bring then meek Daisies, and the Primrose pale,
The snow-clad Lilly of the Velvet Vale,
The purple Violet's Bell empearl'd with Dew,
Cropt at cold Ev'ning, fit on Graves to strew:
Be here no gaudy Pink, or Pansy gay,
No Rose, the Pride of Venus, and of May;
No full Carnation, deck'd with thousand Dies,
Like that embroider'd Bow that copes the Skies;
These may fair Myra at her Bosom wear,
Or mix them fragrant in her flowing Hair:
No such approach this sadly-solemn Scene,
Or spotted Gold, or blended Blue with Green.

Here cast your Off'rings down, the Turf to grace,
And nine Times round his Grave full slowly pace!
Yet should these Flow'rs, like Alcon shortliv'd, fade,
Call the kind Red-breast from his secret Shade,
With loaded Bill green Myrtle-sprigs to bring,
And fondly hov'ring plaintive Dirges sing;

Or bid those Doves that o'er young Horace spread
Fresh Bays and Buds to shield his beauteous Head,
Hither with cooing Elegies repair;
This Babe's as sprightly, innocent, and fair:
And——but Fate call'd him to eternal Rest,
A favouring Muse had warm'd his little Breast.
Poor, hapless Babe!——yet art thou early flown,
The World's vain Vice, unpractis'd and unknown:
The Frauds that lurk beneath a dimpled Smile,
The oily Speech of panegyric Guile;
The Atheist's Scoffs, the midnight Revels lewd,
Mean Follies of the Beau, Coquette, and Prude;
The Miser's Care to heap, the Heirs to spend,
The murder'd Brother, and the treach'rous Friend;
The Statesman's Crafts, the good Man's weary Toils,
The Villain's Triumphs, the stern Tyrant's Spoils:
Far from these Cares, where Breasts seraphic glow,
Thou calmly view'st the noisy Scenes below.

So from some lofty Rock beholds the Swain
The stormy Tumults of the swelling Main;
Here, o'er the foamy Floods the wild Winds sweep,
There, sinks the found'ring Vessel in the Deep:
He, while the billowy Surge beneath him breaks,
In Safety listens to the distant Shrieks.





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