PARDON, great Soul, if duty grounded on Blood and affection's firm devotion, Force my weak Muse to sacrilege, and by Short payment rob thy sacred memory! To be thy wit's executor, though I No title have, yet a small legacy Fitting my small reception didst thou leave, Which from thy learned works I did receive; I should then prove unthankful to deny Some spices to embalm that memory, Whose soul, and better part, thy lines alone Establish in Eternity's bright throne: Our humble art the body of thy fame Only to Memphian mummy tries to frame; Which, though a swarthy dryness it puts on, Is raised yet above corruption. A tomb of rarest art, magnificent As e'er the East did to thy eyes present, Erected by great Falkland's learned hands To thee alive, in his eloquiums stands. Thy body we are only then t' inter, And to those matchless epitaphs refer The hasty passenger, that cannot stay To hear thy larger Muse her worth display. Unless unto the crowd about the hearse (Those busy sons of sense) I shall rehearse What worth in thy material part did dwell, And at the funeral thy scutcheons spell; Declare the extraction of thy noble line, What graces from all parts of thee did shine, That age thy sense did not at seventy cloud, And thee a youth all then but death allow'd: As for thy soul, if any do inquire, 'Tis making anthems in the heavenly Quire! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CORNELIAN by GEORGE GORDON BYRON THE DAFT DAYS by ROBERT FERGUSSON A HIGH-TONED OLD CHRISTIAN WOMAN by WALLACE STEVENS POUR FORTH THE WINE! by JOHN STUART BLACKIE ZERO by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN ADDRESS FOR MISS FONTENELLE by ROBERT BURNS |