On the Death of the Honble James Thynne - Anne Finch
Meanwhile, ye living Parents, ease your grief
By tears allow'd as natures due relief.
For when we offer to the powers above,
Like You, the dearest objects of our love;
When, with the patient Saint in holy Writ,
We've learnt at once to grieve, and to submit;
When contrite sighs, like hallow'd incense, rise
Bearing our anguish to the appeased skies;
Then may those showers which take from sorrow birth,
And still are tending to this baleful earth,10
O'er all our deep and parching cares diffuse,
Like Eden's springs, or Hermon's soft'ning dews.
But lend your succors, ye Almighty Powers,
For, as the wound, the balsam too is your's.
For when to Shades of Death our joys are fled,
When for a loss, like this, our tears are shed,
None can revive the heart but who can raise the dead!
But yet, my Muse, if thou hast softer verse,
Than e'er bewail'd the melancholy herse;
If thou hast power to dissipate the gloom20
Inherent to the solitary tomb;
To rescue thence the memory and air
Of what we lately saw so fresh and fair;
Then should this noble youth thy art engage
To shew the beauties of his blooming age,
The pleasing light that from his eyes was cast
Like hasty beams too vigorous to last;
Where the warm soul, as on the confines lay,
Ready for flight, and for eternal day.
Gently disposed his nature should be shown30
And all his Mother's sweetness made his own.
The Father's likeness was but faintly seen
As ripen'd fruits are figur'd by the green.—
Next in his harmless sports he should be drawn
Urging his courser, o'er the flowery lawn;
Sprightly himself as the enlivened game,
Bold in the chase and full of generous flame;
Yet in the palace tractable and mild,
Perfect in all the duties of a child;
Which fond reflection pleases while it pains,40
Like penetrating notes of sad harmonious strains.
Selected friendships timely he began,
And siez'd in Youth that best delight of Man,
Leaving a growing race to mourn his end,
Their earliest and their age's promised friend.
But far away alas! that prospect moves,
Lost in the clouds like distant hills and groves,
Whilst with increasing steps we all pursue,
What time alone can bring to nearer view,
That future state, which darkness yet involves,50
Known but by death, which every doubt resolves.
Other Works by Anne Finch:
[ Ссылка ]
#annefinch
