25
By what bold lines shall we his grief express,
Or by what soothing numbers make it less?
'Tis not, I know, the chiming of a song,
Nor all the powers that to the Muse belong,
Words aptly cull'd and meanings well exprest,
Can calm the sorrows of a wounded breast;
But Virtue, soother of the fiercest pains,
Shall heal that bosom, Rutland, where she reigns.
Yet hard the task to heal the bleeding heart,
To bid the still-recurring thoughts depart;
Tame the fierce grief and stem the rising sigh.
And curb rebellious passion, with reply;—
Calmly to dwell on all that pleas'd before,
And yet to know that all shall please no more;—
Oh! glorious labour of the soul to save
Her captive powers, and bravely mourn the Brave.
To such, these thoughts will lasting comfort give-
Life is not measured by the time we live;
'Tis not an even course of threescore years,
A life of narrow views and paltry fears,
Grey-hairs and wrinkles and the cares they bring,
That take from Death, the terrors or the sting;
But 'tis the gen'rous Spirit, mounting high,
Above the world, that native of the sky;
The noble Spirit, that, in dangers brave,
Calmly looks on, or looks beyond the grave;
Such Manners was, so he resign'd his breath,
If in a glorious, then a timely, death.
Cease then that grief and let those tears subside,
If Passion rule us, be that passion Pride;
Or by what soothing numbers make it less?
'Tis not, I know, the chiming of a song,
Nor all the powers that to the Muse belong,
Words aptly cull'd and meanings well exprest,
Can calm the sorrows of a wounded breast;
But Virtue, soother of the fiercest pains,
Shall heal that bosom, Rutland, where she reigns.
Yet hard the task to heal the bleeding heart,
To bid the still-recurring thoughts depart;
Tame the fierce grief and stem the rising sigh.
And curb rebellious passion, with reply;—
Calmly to dwell on all that pleas'd before,
And yet to know that all shall please no more;—
Oh! glorious labour of the soul to save
Her captive powers, and bravely mourn the Brave.
To such, these thoughts will lasting comfort give-
Life is not measured by the time we live;
'Tis not an even course of threescore years,
A life of narrow views and paltry fears,
Grey-hairs and wrinkles and the cares they bring,
That take from Death, the terrors or the sting;
But 'tis the gen'rous Spirit, mounting high,
Above the world, that native of the sky;
The noble Spirit, that, in dangers brave,
Calmly looks on, or looks beyond the grave;
Such Manners was, so he resign'd his breath,
If in a glorious, then a timely, death.
Cease then that grief and let those tears subside,
If Passion rule us, be that passion Pride;
