Classic Poem

On his Marriage with Miss D****.

I Yield, I yield, 'twere madness to contend,
When most admire you, and when all commend!
I yield, and own, whatever sages write,
A multitude for once have judged right.

The seeds of genius Nature did supply,
Their growth was guided by a parent's eye;
Nice to discern, and studious to improve,
Each modest wish he rais'd to gen'ral love;
To virtue pointed each luxuriant spray,
Nor coldly shew'd, but ardent led the way.
The sire, the son, the world with wonder view,
And all the father was foreseen in you:
Foreseen, that generous expanse of soul,
That warm benevolence, which grasps the whole;
O'erlooks distinctions of belief, or race,
And closes systems in its wide embrace:
Foreseen, that nameless virtue, little known,
Which hears another's praise, nor seeks it's own;
Confirms th' applauses grateful hearts beslow,
Grieves at no joy, nor joys at any woe:
Foreseen, in embryo, all that ever can
Give grace to youth, and dignity to man;
The godlike fruits Religion's garden yields,
When conscience guides the knife which reason wields.
With wonder they foresaw, and wond'ring see,
Each worth (if worth so great can greater be)
Improv'd in kind, and heighten'd in degree.

Such virtue, spite of trial, still unquell'd,
Benignant Heav'n with gracious eye beheld;
" Shall he at once our happy mansions tread,
" From life's low cares and flesh's fetters freed?
" Or rather, with some kindred spirit know
" All that can be conceiv'd of heav'n below?
" 'Tis fix'd; (and who shall question heav'n's award?)
" Be Miss D — — his divine reward. "

Sure virtue somehow mixes with the blood,
Runs in a line, and marks whole kindreds good;
Else, whence is none among your num'rous friends
But to his ancestors new lustre lends?
Else, whence were you and your accomplish'd bride
At once by virtue and by blood ally'd?

May ev'ry blessing, each domestic sweet,
Concur to crown an union so complete;
May ev'ry moment, as it passes by,
Disclose new raptures to the ardent eye;
May years revolving ever find you blest,
Your prospects blooming, and your joys increas'd;
Till bounteous heav'n exhaust its ample store,
And mortal weakness can receive no more.

Forgive the freedom of a bard unknown,
Nor check his mounting spirits with a frown;
Fain would he fashion his untutor'd lays,
To honour virtue with deserved praise:
But fruitless prove all efforts to arouse
The lifeless languor of a mourning muse;
His genius scanty, and but small his skill,
The last in merit, not the last in will.