ENGLISH POETRY 1579-1830: SPENSER AND THE TRADITION
, "Elegy on the Death of George Lord Lyttelton" Poems (1773) 16-19.
1743: James Thomson
1746: James Thomson
1747: Catherine Talbot
1747: Thomas Gray
1747: Thomas Edwards
1748: James Thomson
1748: W. D—n
1748: J. W-n
1751: William Shenstone
1751: Horace Walpole
1755 ca.: Richard Meadowcourt
1761: Rev. John Langhorne
1763: Rev. Charles Churchill
1765: William Kenrick
1767: Samuel Johnson
1771: W. P.
1773: James Beattie
1773: Elizabeth Carter
1773: Rev. William Lipscomb
1773: John Tait
1773: Edward Cooper
1773 ca.: A. P.
1773: John Jones
1773: C. R. M. S.
1779: Rev. Vicesimus Knox
1782: Rev. Joseph Warton
1788: John Williams
1792: John Bennet
1795: Dr. Robert Anderson
1802: George Dyer
1806: John Wooll
1806: Dr. John Aikin
1806: William Forbes
1807: Robert Southey
1809: Rev. Percival Stockdale
1810: William Wordsworth
1824: Bryan Waller Procter
1825 ca.: Henry Mackenzie
1829: Anna Brownell Jameson
1832: John Taylor Esq.
1833: Thomas Enort Smith
1834: Sir Samuel Egerton Brydges
1834: Thomas Babington Macaulay
1860: George Gilfillan
1882: Epes Sargent
1888: Edmund Gosse
Rev. William Lipscomb:
1773: George Lyttelton
1800: Rev. Joseph Warton
If virtue bids us kindred worth deplore
And drop a tear of sorrow o'er the dead,
Here let our grief in kindred torrents pour
O'er the sad grave, where Lyttelton is laid;
E'erwhile was he with very virtue blest,
Blest with each grace, adorn'd with every art,
Of all indulgent Heaven could give possest,
The brightest genius of the purest heart.
But Oh! ye nymphs of Hagley's laurell'd shades!
Who shall again your ravish'd joys restore?
Fade all your charms, your boasted beauties fade
For he your friend and guardian is no more:
He whom ye whilom lov'd so well to hear,
No more shall joy and gay delight inspire;
Mute is that tongue which charm'd the listening ear,
Cold are the hands that swept the living lyre.
Then come, Melpomene! with tearful eye
Weep o'er a hapless swain you once caress'd!
'Twas you e'erwhile, who taught him how to sigh,
And sooth'd the sorrows of his labouring breast.
And sure there never yet was luckless swain
Whose harp so sadly-sweet before was strung;
What heart but bled to hear his woful strain,
What eye but stream'd with pity as he sung?
Yet not on merits such as these alone
Shall the fond Muse his nobler trophies plan.
Yet shall not she her partial loss bemoan,
And while she weeps the Bard, forget the Man;
For who, like him, in life's domestic sphere
Did e'er so tender and so constant prove?
Was ever honest heart like his sincere?
So firm in friendship, and so fond in love?
Humane to all, his sympathetic tear
E'en for the stranger's sorrows lov'd to flow:
Ne'er did he scorn Affliction's humble prayer,
Or turn unpitying from the tale of woe.
Yet tho' with Pity heav'd his melting breast,
And felt each gentler virtue's soft controul,
One boldly glow'd superior o'er the rest
And rais'd to joys sublime his kindling soul,
His Country's love — at that all powerful name
In quicker transports leap'd his generous blood,
Check'd was each nearer thought, each partial claim,
And this his law supreme — the Public Good.
Him ne'er did Avarice sordid wiles enslave,
No transient gleam of patriot ardour fir'd
But virtue fed the flame that nature gave,
And kindly cherish'd what she first inspir'd.
But ah! he's sunk in death's o'ershadowing vale,
Nor sighs could rescue him, nor tears could save;
Not all his virtues, all his worth prevail
To snatch the destin'd victim from the grave.
Yet from the grave the voice of honest Fame
To high deserts and virtuous merits just,
To latest times shall sound his deathless name
And raise his memory form the silent dust;
The Muse, that sweet harmonious maid he lov'd
Shall oft to future ages fondly tell,
"This was the favourite swain I most approv'd,
'Twas he who tun'd so sweet my magic shell;
"Ye youths, like him to highest deeds aspire!
By arts like these to glory's summit rise!
Oh! may your souls his bright example fire!
Like him be virtuous, and like him be wise!"