Poems (Mitford)/To G. L. Wardle

by Mary Russell Mitford

to G. L. WARDLE, Esq. ON THE DEATH OF HIS CHILD.

To chase Corruption from Britannia's strand,
To call back Freedom to her native land,
The Patriot rose. In vain the Sons of Place
With sarcasm stung, or threaten'd with disgrace,
Firm in his cause he brav'd the hand of pow'r,
And laugh'd to scorn the tyrants of an hour.
Unknown to fame—to faction unallied—
Folkestone and truth his only aid supplied;
A people's hopes, a people's blessings rose,
And murmur'd vengeance on their haughty foes;
Soon foul corruption cow'ring fled the field,
And truth triumphant wav'd her spotless shield.
Still England rings with Wardle's honor'd name!
Still Scotland's hills re-echo to his fame!

 But vain are human hopes and human joys,
Some bitter drop the honied cup alloys.—
Belov'd! rever'd! though thousand voices raise
The shout of triumph, or the song of praise,
He hears them not.—The father's anguish'd tear
Bedews his darling boy's untimely bier:
Speechless he views the Infant's pallid face,
And mourns each blighted charm, each vanish'd grace.
Yet weep no more! Thy cherub child shall rise,
By angels wafted to his native skies,
Sav'd from the storms of this tempestuous life.
From all its woes, its errors, and its strife;
Pure and unsullied as the morning ray,
He seeks the realms of everlasting day.
And, Oh! if that be true which poets sing,
The guardian hovers on the cherub's wing,
Perchance e'en now he looks exulting down,
And hears with holy joy his sire's renown.

 Then hush'd, illustrious mourner, be thy grief!
Seek in thy glorious course thy best relief!
By patriot deeds exalt thy deathless name,
And add fresh blossoms to thy wreath of fame!