Fly round the globe, my pensive muse, and tell How Zion trembled when great HERVEY fell. Tell how she mourned to see th' impending blow, His strength exhausted and his pulse beat slow. Pale Death, alas! has shot his fatal dart, Which long seem'd pointed at his languid heart. Th' insatiate tyrant, clad in fun'ral gloom, Hath veil'd his glories in the silent tomb. Parental grief on ev'ry eye-lid hung, And mourning bards adapt this doleful song. "HERVEY no more can paint the flagrant flow'r, Or scan creation in his midnight hour. No more assist the silent tombs to preach, Or night's dark gloom their sacred lectures teach. No more true eloquence flows from his tongue, Or list'ning crowds around his pulpit throng. No more he breathes our pestilential air, Or feels the confines of our atmosphere; But soars aloft with angels for his guide, On wings new-plum'd, which ne'er before he try'd With rapid speed his golden pinions rise, Reaches the portals of eternal bliss, Where his kind LORD receives him with a kiss; And crowns his head with gold and glitt'ring stars, Th' immortal trophies of his finish'd wars. There on a throne most exquisitely bright He views his LORD with infinite delight, And beatific day excludes the gloomy night."
