143

OCCASIONAL ELEGY,

IN WHICH THE PRECEDING NARRATIVE IS CONCLUDED.

THE Scene of Death is closed! the mournful strains

Dissolve in dying languor on the ear;

Yet Pity weeps, yet Sympathy complains,
And dumb Supense awaits o'erwhelm'd with fear:

But the sad Muses with prophetic eye

At once the future and the past explore; Their harps Oblivion's influence can defy, And waft the spirit to the' eternal shore

Then, O Palemon! if thy shade can hear

The voice of Friendship still lament thy doom,

Yet to the sad oblations bend thine ear,

That rise in vocal incense o'er thy tomb:

From young Arion first the news received
With terror pale, unhappy Anna read ;
With inconsolable distress she grieved,

And from her cheek the rose of beauty fled.

In vain, alas! the gentle virgin wept,

Corrosive anguish nipp'd her vital bloom; O'er her soft frame diseases sternly crept, And gave the lovely victim to the tomb:

A longer date of woe, the widow'd Wife
Her lamentable lot afflicted bore;

Yet both were rescued from the chains of life
Before Arion reach'd his native shore!

The Father, unrelenting phrensy stung,
Untaught in Virtue's school distress to bear;
Severe remorse his tortured bosom wrung,
He languish'd, groan'd, and perish'd in despair.

Ye lost companions of distress, adieu!

Your toils, and pains, and dangers are no more; The tempest now shall howl unheard by you,

While ocean smites in vain the trembling shore;

On you the blast, surcharged with rain and snow, In Winter's dismal nights no more shall beat; Unfelt by you the vertic Sun may glow,

And scorch the panting earth with baneful heat :

No more the joyful maid, with sprightly strain,

Shall wake the dance to give you welcome home; Nor hopeless Love impart undying pain,

When far from scenes of social joy you roam;

No more on yon wide watery waste you stray,
While hunger and disease your life consume,
While parching thirst, that burns without allay,
Forbids the blasted rose of health to bloom;

No more you feel Contagion's mortal breath,
That taints the realms with misery severe;
No more behold pale Famine, scattering death,
With cruel ravage desolate the year:

The thundering drum, the trumpet's swelling strain
Unheard, shall form the long embattled line;
Unheard, the deep foundations of the main
Shall tremble, when the hostile squadrons join:

Since grief, fatigue, and hazards still molest
The wandering vassals of the faithless deep;
Oh! happier now escaped to endless rest,
Than we who still survive to wake and weep:

G

What though no funeral pomp, no borrow'd tear,

Your hour of death to gazing crowds shall tell; Nor weeping friends attend your sable bier, Who sadly listen to the passing bell;

The tutor❜d sigh, the vain parade of woe,
No real anguish to the soul impart;

And oft, alas! the tear that friends bestow
Belies the latent feelings of the heart:

What though no sculptured pile your name displays, Like those who perish in their country's cause;

What though no Epic Muse in living lays Records your dreadful daring with applause,—

Full oft the flattering marble bids renown

With blazon'd trophies deck the spotted name; And oft, too oft, the venal Muses crown The slaves of Vice with never dying fame:

Yet shall Remembrance from Oblivion's veil
Relieve your scene, and sigh with grief sincere;
And soft Compassion at your tragic tale
In silent tribute pay her kindred tear.