ENGLISH POETRY 1579-1830: SPENSER AND THE TRADITION
Bp. Thomas Percy
Thomas Stott, "Elegiac Stanzas on the Death of the Right Rev. Thomas Percy, D.D. Late Bishop of Dromore" Morning Post (9 October 1811).
Bp. Thomas Percy:
1761: William Shenstone
1765: Rev. Thomas Warton
1773: Rev. Percival Stockdale
1775 ca.: Rev. William Beloe
1778: Samuel Johnson
1778 ca.: Samuel Pegge
1779: Rev. Thomas Maurice
1782 ca.: William Cole
1782: Edward Burnaby Green
1789: Joseph Ritson
1791: Frances Burney
1791: James Boswell
1792: Thomas Dermody
1794: Thomas James Mathias
1802 ca.: Jeremiah Holmes Wiffen
1803: Richard Nares
1805: Rev. Henry Boyd
1808: Sir Walter Scott
1808: John Nichols
1808: Dr. James McHenry
1809: Thomas Stott
1811: Jane West
1811: Charles Phillips
1811: Rev. Henry Boyd
1811: F. B. H.
1815: William Wordsworth
1825 ca.: Joseph Cradock
1825: Allan Cunningham
1852: Mary Russell Mitford
1882: Epes Sargent
1811: Bp. Thomas Percy
1811: Sir Walter Scott
1812: Thomas Dermody
Thou solace in grief, from whom erst I could borrow
An opiate to lull slight sensations of pain,
Now, under the pressure of weightier sorrow,
My harp! I invoke thy assistance again.
For excellence rare from our vales has ascended,
To fill his bright sphere on Eternity's shore,
And Angels of Mercy his Spirit attended,
Preceded by blessings and prayers from the poor.
He cherish'd the germs and the blossoms of Genius—
For Genius, and Judgment, and Taste were his own—
While Virtue's choice plants in his mind bloom'd spontaneous,
And Friendship and Truth in his heart had their Throne.
As a Prelate, exemplary, dignified, zealous,
He faithfully practis'd the duties assign'd;
Of the fortune or fame of another ne'er jealous,
He enjoy'd that prime blessing — contentment of mind.
Ye vales, thro' which Lagan so long has meander'd,
Enriching you still as he glided along,
How oft have I paus'd, as I pensively wander'd,
To mark your wild graces, and paint them in song!
But ah, now no charms in your range I discover—
O'er the breast of the streamlet, the glen, and the grove,
The dark shades of sadness and solitude hover,
As mournful along your green borders I rove.
Be mute, now, my harp! — thy dull duty is ended,
Begun with reluctance, concluded with pain—
Since he, who thy humble exertions befriended,
Is gone, I'll perhaps ne'er invoke thee again.