1746 ENGLISH POETRY 1579-1830: SPENSER AND THE TRADITION

Rev. William Broome

Anonymous, "On the Death of the Rev. Dr. Broome" Gentleman's Magazine 16 (February 1746) 103.



If human sorrows heavenly minds can move,
Or mortal sufferings touch the pow'rs above,
In solemn grief, Pierian maids, appear,
Rend your fair locks, and drop the pearly tear!
For BROOME no more shall raise th' enchanting lay;
Pale lies your bard, a lump of lifeless clay!
What boasts his sacred lyre, whose mystic sound
Could stop the streams, and call the rocks around,
The blameless bosom, or the laurell'd brow,
If rigid Proserpine no pity show?
Tho' Homer equal with Apollo sung,
The fatal sisters stopp'd his tuneful tongue:
Unrivall'd Virgil perish'd in his bloom,
Nor Ovid's muse could save him from the tomb!
Where art thou fled? — one fortune let us share!
Give me with thee to wing the realms of air!
For, oh! what pleasure — (now my friend is lost)
Can wretched life present, or fortune boast?
Depriv'd of thee, ambition shines in vain,
And wealth is comfortless, and honours mean.
To Virtue's potent aid I fly alone,
Since thy example and advice are gone!
See wild Belona shake her ruddy brand,
Alas! what dangers threat my native land!
Mark vengeful Gallia, from her hostile shore,
The destin'd storm of black invasion pour!
While proud Iberia, of her treasures vain,
Forms new armadas to disturb the main!
Lo! from their highland dens a ruffian crew
Desp'rate descend, and, with rebellious view,
O'er fertile Britain urge their lawless way,
And taste the sweets of meditated prey.
And is it now a time for us to part?
Now must I lose the partner of my heart!
Alas, I err! — 'twas Britain's mournful fate
Abridg'd thy life, and hurry'd on its date;
Thy patriot bosom sunk beneath the blow,
Broome fell the martyr of his country's woe!
Yet fled to happier climes, to realms of rest,
Where troubles reach not, nor alarms molest.
In groves elysian may thy gentle mind
Sequester'd joys, and blameless raptures find!
Light lie the earth, in which thy dust is bound,
Peace guard thy spot, and flourets bloom around!
Translated from Jan. Mag. p. 39.