212
Poems on
While tir'd of Life, we but consent to live
To show the World how really we grieve!
As some fond Sire, whose only Son lies dead,
All lost to Comfort makes the Dust his Bed:
Hangs o'er his Urn, with frantic Grief deplores,
And bathes his Clay-cold Cheek with copious Show'rs,
Such Heart-felt Pangs on thy sad Bier attend;
Companion! Brother! all in one—my Friend!
Unless the Soul, a Wound eternal bears,
Sighs are but Air, but common Water, Tears;
The Proud, relentless weep in State, and show
Not Sorrow, but Magnificence of Woe.
To show the World how really we grieve!
As some fond Sire, whose only Son lies dead,
All lost to Comfort makes the Dust his Bed:
Hangs o'er his Urn, with frantic Grief deplores,
And bathes his Clay-cold Cheek with copious Show'rs,
Such Heart-felt Pangs on thy sad Bier attend;
Companion! Brother! all in one—my Friend!
Unless the Soul, a Wound eternal bears,
Sighs are but Air, but common Water, Tears;
The Proud, relentless weep in State, and show
Not Sorrow, but Magnificence of Woe.
Thus in the Fountain, from the Sculptor's Hands,
With imitated Life an Image stands;
From rocky Entrails, thro' his stony Eyes,
The mimic Tears in Streams incessant rise;
With imitated Life an Image stands;
From rocky Entrails, thro' his stony Eyes,
The mimic Tears in Streams incessant rise;
Unconscious!
