To the Memory of Mrs. ABIGAIL JONES.
Ah! What avails, that round her polish’d form
The modest Graces lent each varied charm!
Ah! What avails the friend surrounded bier,
Or e’en a matchless Husband’s hopeless tear!
That Mind, where Virtue rais’d her spotless throne,
Where Bounty smil’d, and beaming Genius shone;
That Touch, which taught the swelling notes to roll,
That Voice, whose warbling wak’d the slumbering soul,
That Fancy, whence the pencil’d scenes arose,
That Hand, by which the living landscape glows,
Unconscious sleep! Regardless of each care,
Which burns the heart, and swells th’ empassion’d tear;
The hovering Spirit wings its promis’d way,
And bending Seraphs guard the beauteous clay.
Bright as the Rose, which fades beneath the storm,
Fair as the gather’d Lily’s silver form,
Lamented Shade I for thee shall memory mourn,
And deathless praise thy hallow’d grave adorn!
With every grace the raptur’d soul to move,
Caress’d by fortune, happy in thy love;
Ah! When did fate in equal splendour shine,
Or what blest Husband knew a joy like thine!
Won by his worth, by his perfections charm’d,
Endear’d by Hope, by mutual fondness warm’d,
Each opening morn increasing pleasures knew,
In scenes of bliss each closing day withdraw.
Great God of wisdom! On thy just decree,
What impious mortal dares to question thee!
Why the blest ANNA yields her valued breath,
While loathing wretches court the grasp of death.
While some, whom sad affliction calls her own,
Beneath this tedious weight of being gross,
In secret breathe the unavailing sigh,
And cloud with ceaseless tears the melting eye!
Or who the hidden springs of fate can find,
What ruling power instructs the searching mind!
Why merit droops, and prosp’rous vice beguiles,
Why pity mourns, and rude oppression smiles,
And while the living misereant laughs at woe,
O’er BEAUTY’S urn the tears of VIRTUE flow.