300 LYRIC POEMS. To the dear Memory of my honoured Friend, Thomas Gunston, Esq. Who died November 11,1700, when he had just 'finished his Seat at Newington. OF blasted hopes, and of short withering joys, Sing, heav'nly muse. Try thine etherial voice In funeral numbers and a doleful song ; Gunston, the just, the generous and the young,. Gunston, the friend, is dead, O empty name Of earthly bliss ! 'tis all an airy dream,. All a vain thought ! Our soaring fancies rise Ontreach'rous wings, and hopes that touch the skies Drag but a longer ruin thro' the downward air, And plunge the falling joys still deeper in despair. How did our souls stand flatter'd and prepar'd To shout him welcome to the seat he rear'd! There the dear man should see his hopes complete, Smiling, and tasting ev'ry lawful sweet That peace and plentybrings, while numerous years Circlingdelightful, play'd around the spheres : Revolving suns should still renew his strength, And draw th' uncommon thread to an unusual length, But hasty fate thrusts her dread shears between, Cuts the young life off, and shuts up the scene: Thus airy pleasure dances in our eyes, And spreads false images in fair disguise, T' allure our souls, till just within our arms The vision dies, and all the painted charms Flee quick away from the pursuing sight, 'Till they are lost in shades, and mingle with the night.! Muse, stretch thy wings, and thy sad journey bend To the fair Fabric that thy dying friend Built, nameless: 'twill suggests thousand things Mournful and soft as my Urania sings. How did he lay the deep foundation strong, Marking the bounds, and rear the walls along Solid and lasting ; there a numerous train Of happy Gunstons might in pleasure reign, While nations perish, and long ages run, Nations unborn, andages unbegun: Not time itself should waste the blest estate, Nor the tenth race rebuild the ancient seat. How fond our fancies are ! the founder dies ) Childless ; his sisters weep and close his eyes, j} And wait upon his hearse with never - ceasing cries. Lofty and slow it moves to meet the tomb, While weighty sorrow nods on ev'ry plume; A thousand groans his dear remains convey To his cold lodging in a bed of clay, )} His country's sacred tears well - watering all the way. See the dull wheels roll on the sable load ; But no dear son to tread the mournful road, And fondly kind drop his young sorrows there, The father's urn bedewing with a filial tear. O had he left us one behind, to play Wanton about the painted hall, and my, " This was my father's," with impatient joy In my fond arms I'd clasp the smiting boy, And call him my young friend : but awful fate, Design'd the mighty stroke as lasting as 'twas great,
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