The scene of Death is closed! the mournful strains
Dissolve in dying languor on the ear;
Yet Pity weeps, yet Sympathy complains,
And dumb Suspense awaits o’erwhelm’d with fear:
But the sad Muses with prophetic eye
At once the future and the past explore;
Their harps Oblivion’s influence can defy,
And waft the spirit to th’ eternal shore—
Then, O Palemon! if thy shade can hear
The voice of Friendship still lament thy doom,
Yet to the sad oblations bend thine ear,
That rise in vocal incense o’er thy tomb:
From young Arion first the news received
With terror pale, unhappy Anna read;
With inconsolable distress she grieved,
And from her cheek the rose of beauty fled.
In vain, alas! the gentle virgin wept,
Corrosive anguish nipt her vital bloom;
O’er her soft frame diseases sternly crept,
And gave the lovely victim to the tomb:
A longer date of woe, the widowed Wife
Her lamentable lot afflicted bore;
Yet both were rescued from the chains of life
Before Arion reached his native shore!
The Father, unrelenting phrenzy stung,
Untaught in Virtue’s school distress to bear;
Severe remorse his tortured bosom wrung,
He languished, groaned, and perished in despair.
Ye lost companions of distress, adieu!
Your toils, and pains, and dangers are no more;
The tempest now shall howl unheard by you,
While ocean smites in vain the trembling shore;
On you the blast, surcharged with rain and snow,
In Winter’s dismal nights no more shall beat;
Unfelt by you the vertic Sun may glow,
And scorch the panting earth with baneful heat:
No more the joyful maid, with sprightly strain,
Shall wake the dance to give you welcome home;
Nor hopeless Love impart undying pain,
When far from scenes of social joy you roam;
No more on yon wide watery waste you stray,
While hunger and disease your life consume,
While parching thirst, that burns without allay,
Forbids the blasted rose of health to bloom;
No more you feel Contagion’s mortal breath,
That taints the realms with misery severe;
No more behold pale Famine, scattering death,
With cruel ravage desolate the year:
The thundering drum, the trumpet’s swelling strain
Unheard, shall form the long embattled line;
Unheard, the deep foundations of the main
Shall tremble, when the hostile squadrons join:
Since grief, fatigue, and hazards still molest
The wandering vassals of the faithless deep;
Oh! happier now escaped to endless rest,
Than we who still survive to wake, and weep:
What though no funeral pomp, no borrowed tear,
Your hour of death to gazing crowds shall toll;
Nor weeping friends attend your sable bier,
Who sadly listen to the passing bell;
The tutor’d sigh, the vain parade of woe,
No real anguish to the soul impart;
And oft, alas! the tear that friends bestow,
Belies the latent feelings of the heart:
What though no sculptured pile your name displays,
Like those who perish in their country’s cause;
What though no Epic Muse in living lays
Records your dreadful daring with applause,—
Full oft the flattering marble bids renown
With blazoned trophies deck the spotted name;
And oft, too oft, the venal Muses crown
The slaves of Vice with never-dying fame:—
Yet shall Remembrance from oblivion’s veil
Relieve your scene, and sigh with grief sincere;
And soft Compassion at your tragic tale
In silent tribute pay her kindred tear.