Classic Poem

THOMAS HERRING, DD. Late Lord Archbishop of Canterbury .

I.

Fast by the fountains of the silver Cray,
Encircled deep with weeping willows round,
O! let me sorrowing pass the pensive day,
And wake my reed to many a plaintive sound.

II.

For good Aurelius (now alas! no more,)
Sighs follow sighs, and tears to tears succeed;
Him shall the Muse in tenderest notes deplore,
For oft he tun'd to melody my reed.

III.

How was I late by his indulgence blest,
Cheer'd with his smiles, and by his precepts taught!
My fancy deem'd him some angelic guest,
Some heaven-sent guide, with blissful tidings fraught.

IV.

Mild was his aspect, full of truth and grace,
Temper'd with dignity and lively sense;
Sweetness and candour beam'd upon his face,
Emblems of love and large benevolence.

V.

Yet never useless slept those virtues fair,
Nor languish'd unexerted in the mind;
Secret as thought, yet unconfin'd as air,
He dealt his bounties out to all mankind.

VI.

How will the poor, alas! now truly poor,
Bewail their generous benefactor dead?
Who daily, from his hospitable door,
The naked cloath'd, and gave the hungry bread.

VII.

To sick and orphans duly sent relief,
Was feet and eyes to cripples and the blind,
Sooth'd all the suffering family of grief,
And pour'd sweet balsam on the wounded mind.

VIII.

How will the nation their lost guardian mourn?
Lo! pale-ey'd S CIENCE fix'd in grief appears;
The drooping Arts, reclining on his urn,
Lament, and every Muse dissolves in tears.

IX.

Genius of Britain! search the kingdom round,
Ere yet the strict enquiry be too late;
What bold, unblemish'd patriot can be found,
To rouse the virtues of a languid state?

X.

With freedom's voice to wake the slumbering age,
To cheer fair merit, prowess to advance,
Dauntless to rise, and scourge with generous rage
The high-plum'd pride and perfidy of France.

XI.

Alas! no longer burns the glorious flame;
The patriot passion animates no more;
But, like the whirling eddy, some low aim
Absorbs alike the great, the rich, the poor.

XII.

Not so, when wise Aurelius o'er the North
Shed the mild influence of his pastoral care,
The madness of rebellion issuing forth,
He stemm'd the torrent of the rising war.

XIII.

Behold him! with his country's weal inspir'd,
Before the martial sons of Ebor stand,
Fair in the robe of eloquence attir'd,
In act to speak, he waves the graceful hand.

XIV.

Silent as evening, lo! the listening throng,
While from his lips the glowing periods fall,
Drink sweet persuasion, streaming from his tongue,
And the firm chain of concord binds them all.

XV.

As some large river, gentle, strong, and deep,
Winds his smooth volumes o'er the wide campaign,
Then forceful flows, and with resistless sweep,
Rolls, in his strength collected, to the main:

XVI.

Thus the good prelate, in his country's cause,
Pour'd the full tide of eloquence along;
As erst Tyrtaeus gain'd divine applause,
Who fir'd the Spartans with heroic song.

XVII.

But when religious truths his bosom warm'd,
Faith, hope, repentance, and eternal love,
With such pathetic energy he charm'd,
He raised our souls to Paradise above.

XVIII.

The holy city's adamantine gate
On golden hinge he open'd to our view;
Unravell'd every path, perplex'd and strait,
And gave to willing minds the safe-conducting clew.

XIX.

For God's Messiah was his chosen guide;
And well the sacred lore he understood,
And well the precept, sent from heaven, apply'd,
" For evil meekly recompensing good."

XX.

Thus mild, thus humble, in the highest state,
The " one thing needful " was his sole regard;
Belov'd, and blameless, he prolong'd his date
By acts of goodness, which themselves reward.

XXI.

To him the bed of sickness gave no pain;
For, trusting only in th' Almighty King,
He look'd on dissolution as his gain;
No terrors had the Grave, and Death no sting.

XXII.

Ah! Muse, forbear that last sad scene to draw —
This homage, due to virtue, let me pay,
These heart-sprung tears, inspir'd by filial awe,
These numbers warbled to the silver Cray.