ENGLISH POETRY 1579-1830: SPENSER AND THE TRADITION
Charles Coffey, "To the Memory of Mr. John Gay" Universal Spectator (27 January 1733).
1714: Rev. Thomas Parnell
1715 ca.: Rev. Thomas Parnell
1715 ca.: Samuel Garth
1716: Rev. Jonathan Swift
1720 ca.: Anonymous
1720: Giles Jacob
1724: James Heywood
1725: Richard Savage
1727: Rev. Samuel Wesley the Younger
1728: Allan Ramsay
1728: William Duncombe
1729: Thomas Cooke
1729: John Arbuthnot
1731: A Young Gentleman of Cambridge
1732: Alexander Pope
1733: Charles Coffey
1733: John Arbuthnot
1734 ca.: Alexander Pope
1736: Alexander Pope
1751 ca.: Moses Mendez
1751: William Warburton
1761: Rev. Myles Cooper
1767: Oliver Goldsmith
1772: Dr. John Aikin
1773: Rev. William Hayward Roberts
1773: Robert Fergusson
1780: W. S.
1782: Rev. Joseph Warton
1783: Joseph Ritson
1795: Dr. Robert Anderson
1796: Rev. Richard Polwhele
1806: Dr. John Aikin
1806: Rev. William Lisle Bowles
1807: Robert Southey
1815: William Wordsworth
1819: Thomas Campbell
1824: William Hazlitt
1824: Bryan Waller Procter
1829: Henry Neele
1833: John Wilson
1871: Whitwell Elwin
1880: Austin Dobson
1882: Epes Sargent
1882: Edmund Gosse
1733: John Gay
He was, — but Words are wanting to say what,
Say all that's Bright and Gay, and he was that.
No more alas! shall witty Gay,
In pointed Satire Vice display;
And in a just peculiar Light,
Render it odious to the Sight.
No more shall he in Numbers shine,
The darling Fav'rite of the Nine:
Nor with his tuneful Sonnets charm;
And ev'ry Heart with Pity warm.
Soft Polly now forlorn may be;
And Macheath die on Tyburn Tree:
No more Reprieves his Life prolong,
Obtain'd by Sweetness of a Song:
The Poet's Lays have no no Force,
To stop the Law's impetuous Course.
Fond Kitty now may learn to write,
That she to Filbert may indite;
Her Tears no more can cause his Stay,
Enlisted he must march away;
Nor can her Beauty, Youth, or Love,
With Justices successful prove:
For he is gone, whose softer Art,
Cou'd melt the most obdurate Heart.
Poor black-ey'd Susan now may weep,
For William far upon the Deep;
For he is dead whose plaintive Strain
Cou'd calm the Winds, and sooth the Main.
No more shall we such Morals find,
To mend the Heart, and teach the Mind;
As in his Fables sweetly flow,
That Cure for ev'ry Ill below.
The Rabble now in ev'ry Street
May rudely justle all they meet;
Whilst Passengers aloud complain
Of publick Nusances in vain:
They now of him can only talk,
Whose Trivia taught 'em how to walk.
The mourning Nymphs, and joyless Swains,
May wander o'er the widow'd Plains,
And weep for him, whose rural Lay
Made Nature smile, and chear'd the Day.
The Pipe that sweetly lull'd to sleep
The sportive Lamb and bleating Sheep,
Is broke, alas! nor can he speak,
Who best describ'd the Shepherd's Week.
Then all ye Bards his Works rehearse,
To crown his never dying Verse;
Around his Tomb together throng,
And mourn his Exit in a Song.