ENGLISH POETRY 1579-1830: SPENSER AND THE TRADITION
J. W., "On the Death of Mr. John Cunningham" Newcastle Chronicle (13 November 1773).
1764: James Woodhouse
1765: T. O.
1766: J. R.
1766: C. B., M.D.
1766: Author of the Cook's Tale
1773: John Cunningham
1773: J. W.
1773: W. K-x, jun.
1773: Robert Fergusson
1774: H. W.
1775: W. Holland
1776: William Hawkins
1778: William Hawkins
1789: Mr. Tyson
1789: John Williams
1790 ca.: Joseph Ritson
1802: George Saville Carey
1802: David Carey
1804: William Mudford
1809: Stephen George Kemble
1824: Bryan Waller Procter
1860: George Gilfillan
1882: Epes Sargent
1922: Iolo Williams
1695: Michael Drayton
1740: Rev. Isaac Watts
1773: John Cunningham
1778: Gen. John Burgoyne
1779: Bp. Robert Lowth
1780: William Shenstone
1782: James Beattie
1800: Elizabeth Montagu
1814: Robert Southey
Why weeps my Phoebe, why that flood of grief?
Can Damon to his fair give no relief?
Wipe off that pearly drop, the cause reveal,
And let your Damon all your sorrows feel.
Alas! dear Damon, all our joys are fled,
All comfort's gone, poor CORYDON is dead;
The prince of shepherds, who so sweetly sung,
That with his verse the hills and valleys rung,
Is now no more, — relentless death has slain
The bravest lad that ever grac'd the plain.
Sad news indeed! the blithest of the throng,
Whose soul was sweetly tun'd for past'ral song:
Our very flocks would come to graze the plain,
And list attentive to his charming strain:
"Hang down your heads, ye hills — weep out, ye springs,
On your sweet banks no more the shepherd sings."
Whene'er I head him sing his sweet CONTENT,
As we reclined on the mossy bent,
The longest day I wish'd it twice as long,
To hear the tuneful warbling of his song:
But now, alas, where shall I ease my grief!
E'en Damon's soothings cannot give relief.
Dear Phoebe, you and I must surely mourn
Our mutual loss, — but since there's no return,
Why should we rob his virtuous soul of rest?
He's now call up to sing among the blest:
His muse while here the paths of Nature trod,
Now warbles round the throne of Nature's God.
You've eas'd my mind and since his soul's at rest,
No more I'll weep, but make it my request,
That I again may hear his charming lay,
In yonder fields where dwells eternal day:
Come then, dear Damon, let us homeward go,
Hope future bliss, and banish present woe.