Philocles
AN ELEGY, ON THE DEATH OF MR WILLIAM DRYBURGH .
Wailing, I sit on Leven's sandy shore,
And sadly tune the reed to sounds of woe;
Once more I call Melpomene! once more
Spontaneous teach the weeping verse to flow!
The weeping verse shall flow in friendship's name,
Which friendship asks, and friendship fain would pay;
The weeping verse, which worth and genius claim.
Begin then, Muse! begin thy mournful lay.
Aided by thee, I 'll twine a rustic wreath
Of fairest flow'rs, to deck the grass-grown grave
Of Philocles, cold in the bed of death,
And mourn the gentle youth I could not save.
Where lordly Forth divides the fertile plains,
With ample sweep, a sea from side to side,
A rocky bound his raging course restrains,
For ever lashed by the resounding tide.
There stands his tomb upon the sea-beat shore,
Afar discerned by the rough sailor's eye,
Who, passing, weeps, and stops the sounding oar,
And points where piety and virtue lie.
Like the gay palm on Rabbah's fair domains,
Or cedar shadowing Carmel's flowery side;
Or, like the upright ash on Britain's plains,
Which waves its stately arms in youthful pride:
So flourished Philocles: and as the hand
Of ruthless woodman lays their honours low,
He fell in youth's fair bloom by fate's command.
'Twas fate that struck, 'tis ours to mourn the blow.
Alas! we fondly thought that Heaven designed
His bright example mankind to improve:
All they should be, was pictured in his mind;
His thoughts were virtue, and his heart was love.
Calm as a summer's sun's unruffled face,
He looked unmoved on life's precarious game,
And smiled at mortals toiling in the chase
Of empty phantoms — opulence and fame.
Steady he followed Virtue's onward path,
Inflexible to Error's devious way;
And firm at last, in hope and fixed faith,
Thro' Death's dark vale he trod without dismay.
The gloomy vale he trod, relentless Death!
Where waste and horrid desolation reign.
The tyrant, humbled, there resigns his wrath;
The wretch, elated, there forgets his pain;
There sleep the infant, and the hoary head;
Together lie the oppressor and the oppressed;
There dwells the captive, free among the dead;
There Philocles, and there the weary rest.
The curtains of the grave fast drawn around,
'Till the loud trumpet wakes the sleep of death,
With dreadful clangour through the world resound,
Shake the firm globe, and burst the vaults beneath.
Then Philocles shall rise, to glory rise,
And his Redeemer for himself shall see;
With Him in triumph mount the azure skies:
For where He is, His followers shall be.
Whence then these sighs? and whence this falling tear?
To sad remembrance of his merit just,
Still must I mourn, for he to me was dear,
And still is dear, though buried in the dust.
Wailing, I sit on Leven's sandy shore,
And sadly tune the reed to sounds of woe;
Once more I call Melpomene! once more
Spontaneous teach the weeping verse to flow!
The weeping verse shall flow in friendship's name,
Which friendship asks, and friendship fain would pay;
The weeping verse, which worth and genius claim.
Begin then, Muse! begin thy mournful lay.
Aided by thee, I 'll twine a rustic wreath
Of fairest flow'rs, to deck the grass-grown grave
Of Philocles, cold in the bed of death,
And mourn the gentle youth I could not save.
Where lordly Forth divides the fertile plains,
With ample sweep, a sea from side to side,
A rocky bound his raging course restrains,
For ever lashed by the resounding tide.
There stands his tomb upon the sea-beat shore,
Afar discerned by the rough sailor's eye,
Who, passing, weeps, and stops the sounding oar,
And points where piety and virtue lie.
Like the gay palm on Rabbah's fair domains,
Or cedar shadowing Carmel's flowery side;
Or, like the upright ash on Britain's plains,
Which waves its stately arms in youthful pride:
So flourished Philocles: and as the hand
Of ruthless woodman lays their honours low,
He fell in youth's fair bloom by fate's command.
'Twas fate that struck, 'tis ours to mourn the blow.
Alas! we fondly thought that Heaven designed
His bright example mankind to improve:
All they should be, was pictured in his mind;
His thoughts were virtue, and his heart was love.
Calm as a summer's sun's unruffled face,
He looked unmoved on life's precarious game,
And smiled at mortals toiling in the chase
Of empty phantoms — opulence and fame.
Steady he followed Virtue's onward path,
Inflexible to Error's devious way;
And firm at last, in hope and fixed faith,
Thro' Death's dark vale he trod without dismay.
The gloomy vale he trod, relentless Death!
Where waste and horrid desolation reign.
The tyrant, humbled, there resigns his wrath;
The wretch, elated, there forgets his pain;
There sleep the infant, and the hoary head;
Together lie the oppressor and the oppressed;
There dwells the captive, free among the dead;
There Philocles, and there the weary rest.
The curtains of the grave fast drawn around,
'Till the loud trumpet wakes the sleep of death,
With dreadful clangour through the world resound,
Shake the firm globe, and burst the vaults beneath.
Then Philocles shall rise, to glory rise,
And his Redeemer for himself shall see;
With Him in triumph mount the azure skies:
For where He is, His followers shall be.
Whence then these sighs? and whence this falling tear?
To sad remembrance of his merit just,
Still must I mourn, for he to me was dear,
And still is dear, though buried in the dust.
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