An Elegy on the Death of Mr. Richard Cross

Farewell, kind youth! my friend farewell!
Since fate will have it so;
Cease, cease, the solemn passing bell,
Nor aggravate my woe.

In plaintive notes my muse shall sing
Thy merits and thy name,
And on her weak, but grateful wing,
She'll bear thee up to fame.

What tho' obscure, thou spent thy days
A friend to virtue's cause,
Thy merits still demand my lays,
To whisper thy applause.

The lonely bud that blows obscure
Beneath the spreading thorn,
Often preserves a scent more pure,
Than what the top adorn.

I little thought, my dearest friend,
To see thee dead so soon,
For who could think the day wou'd end
Before it well was noon?

Thy noon of life an ev'ning prov'd,
Thy sun ran quickly down,
Thy morning was by all belov'd,
Thine eve without a frown.

Thro' life with even pace thou steer'd,
Without one single foe,
(By friends belov'd, by truth rever'd,)
Lest envy made them so.

But who could be a foe to thee,
A friend to all mankind:
Whose breast was all tranquility,
With harmony combin'd.

How oft have I at peep of dawn
Thy friendly summons heard,
And with thee trod the verdant lawn,
Before the sun appear'd.

From Richmond hill to Twick'nham dale,
How often have we stray'd,
Charm'd with the thrush and nightingale,
That sang in Dysart's shade.

When cloudy mists from off the brooks
Proclaim'd a summer's day,
With glee we talk'd of men and books,
And argu'd time away.

Whene'er a wild romantic scene
Has struck our wand'ring eyes,
And where the magic circle's been,
Great Shakespear would arise.

Where gentle Zephyrs blew serene,
As thro' the copse we steer'd,
Or when some garden we have seen,
Great Milton has appear'd.

When nature dasy'd o'er the lawn,
And blossom'd ev'ry tree,
The humble Thompson's Muse would dawn,
Like pure simplicity.

When o'er the hill we've chanc'd to stray,
And view'd some mansion by,
Oft with a smile, I've heard thee say
"Its wealthy Lord must die."

Thou envy'd not the proud his wealth,
His luxury and pride,
Thy only boon a little health,
But that the fates deny'd.

Thy honest ear would ne'er attend
The vile detractor's lye,
But with a manly zeal defend
Both friend and enemy.

Oft when the lark had clos'd her wings,
The Moon began her reign,
I've heard thee touch thy magic strings,
And play thy usual strain.

Scarce had the Thames sent up a breeze,
Or dews fall'n on the ground,
But thro' the gentle waving trees,
I heard the pleasing sound.

Enraptur'd have I stood alone
Beneath a cooling shade,
With extacy I've caught each tone,
In soft piano's play'd.

But now the ev'ning charms no more,
No more the morn delights,
Since morn nor ev'ning can restore
Thee back again to sight.

No more shall I at break of day
Thy friendly summons hear,
Nor with thee o'er the woodlands stray,
Before the Sun appear.

In sad remembrance o'er thy tomb,
Thy requiem will I sing,
When night with dull and awful gloom
Shall spread her raven wing.