ENGLISH POETRY 1579-1830: SPENSER AND THE TRADITION
, "Monody. Addressed to Mr. Tickell" Poetry of the World (1788) 1:76-77.
1778: A Lady
1780: Hannah More
1788: Robert Merry
1798: Thomas James Mathias
1809: Rev. Percival Stockdale
1822: John Wilson Croker
1825 ca.: Henry Mackenzie
1832: John Taylor Esq.
1856: Samuel Rogers
1787: Hannah Cowley
1788: Richard Tickell
1791: Mary Robinson
1794: Samuel Rogers
If ever for fictitious grief
My soul a transient sorrow knew;
If sometimes I have heav'd a sigh,
But to behold the virgin leaf
Of the lost LILY with'ring die!
Sure tend'rest sympathy is due
To THEE, from whom each cherish'd bliss is fled,
Who mourn'st by day and night, thy own MARIA dead!
O TICKELL! in the murm'ring gale,
Oft have I found thy plaintive voice prevail;
When the wet fingers of the morn,
Shook the cold pearl-drops from the bending thorn;
Or when, at close of day,
To the lone vale I took my way,
The sad vibration of faint ECHO'S breath,
Brought to my heart the dirge of Death.
Then all dejected, have I paus'd to hear,
And felt a kindred pang sincere;
Sincere as erst thy Father's PARENT prov'd,
When for the Friend he lov'd,
He wove a cypress wreath, and hung upon his hearse.
Ah! let me take my simple reed,
And seek the moonlight mead;
Or where 'mongst rocks the headlong stream,
Flashes the lucid beam;
Woo calm REFLECTION in her sober bow'r,
As pond'ring at the midnight hour,
She flings her solace on each passing wind,
That wafts the heavenly balm to heal the wounded mind.
So may her mighty spell,
Thy desolating anguish quell,
So may'st thou quit at length the Forest's gloom;
Nor thus for ever dwell upon the Sainted Tomb.
O think, when wand'ring on the shore,
Thou mark'st with musing eye,
O'er the rude cliffs the tempest fly,
And rouse to sudden rage the howling main.
Think, SHE thou lov'st, has left a World,
Where jarring elements are hurl'd,
And where contending atoms roar,
To join, 'midst endless joy, th' adoring Seraph's strain!
Yes, she was mild and lovely as the star
That in the Western hemisphere afar,
Lifts its pure lamp above the mountain's head,
To light meek Evening to her dewy bed.
And as the waning Moon displays,
With mirror clear, Morn's rising rays,
She, in decay, show'd VIRTUE'S ORB refin'd,
Reflected fairer from her angel mind;
'Till at the last, too fierce a blaze was given,
And then she shrunk from sight, and FADED into HEAVEN.
Yet do not mourn, be grief away,
For all things perish, all things go;
Soon silence drinks the Linnet's lay,
And yonder sapphire waves shall cease to flow,
Scared by the hissing brand,
Of thirsty Summer's sultry hand.
From the lorn wood the leaves descend,
And all of Nature, as of Art, must end.
Sad Consolation, true! yet why,
If soon must close the languid eye,
Since a short moment but remains,
For all our fears, and all our pains,
Why should we fondly brood on care,
Ah! why devote us to despair!
But Time assiduous loves to urge
Our footsteps to his utmost verge,
Because that there a rapt'rous scene appears,
Where ANGUISH never throbs, nor SORROW sinks in tears.
Meanwhile, forbear not to disclose,
The Scions of that beauteous Stem;
And tho' the PARENT ROSE,
Was prematurely lost,
By a remorseless frost;
O view the op'ning Buds, and smile at least for them!