ENGLISH POETRY 1579-1830: SPENSER AND THE TRADITION
G. L. Schoen, "Verses on the Death of John Hoole, Esq." Poetical Register and Repository of Fugitive Poetry for 1804 (1806) 131.
1763: James Beattie
1773: Rev. Percival Stockdale
1783: Samuel Johnson
1783: Hannah More
1794: Frances Burney
1797: Charles Lamb
1799: Thomas Green
1804: G. L. Schoen
1818: Rev. William Beloe
1820: Dr. Nathan Drake
1826: Sir Walter Scott
1826: Leigh Hunt
1845: John Wilson
1934: Roderick Marshall
G. L. Schoen:
1804: John Hoole
Oh, summon'd from this vale below
Of toil, and vanity, and woe:
Thy christian warfare now is o'er;
They wearied bark hath gain'd the shore;
And full of days, in cheerful age,
Is closed thy blameless pilgrimage!
What tho' thy labours to diffuse
The splendor of the Tuscan Muse,
Dispersing, with a Master's hand,
Her treasures o'er thy native land,
Shall long attest thy polished mind,
Thy flow of verse and taste refined,
Far different objects strike the few
Thy pure unsullied worth who knew.
Be theirs the daily task to trace
Each modest unassuming grace,
Which, in a world of pride and strife,
Adorned thy calm unenvied life,
And, led by Virtue's gentle flame,
On thine, their devious steps to fame.
To me, who marked from early youth
Thy manners mild, and moral truth,
How keenly tempered is the dart,
When fond regret assails the heart!
For oft will wayward Fancy stray
To bask in Childhood's sunny day,
That early sabbath of the breast
From Passion's hateful strife at rest,
When, freed from discipline and care,
I ran thy social smiles to share:
My frequent haunt at eve when school
Relaxed the rigour of its rule;
There, to each boyish effort kind,
Thy valued stores enriched my mind,
Thy precepts formed my taste, and gave
The little skill in verse I have.
Though all the pride of wealth and power
But glitters for a transient hour,
Tho' Rhetoric's richest strains must fade
When cold the listening ear is laid,
The Poet's energetic fire,
"Oh, proud distinction of the Lyre!"
Aspires to never-dying fame,
And ages ratify the claim:
But human toils have still their date;
The Muse herself must stoop to Fate,
And, in the general wreck of all,
Must see her proudest trophies fall!
While modest Worth, tho' known to few,
And shrinking from the public view,
Labouring amid the Passion's storm,
Life's arduous duties to perform,
And prompt at every Christian call,
And rich in charity to all,
Shall still be register'd above,
In realms of endless peace and love.