Lines on the Death of John, Lord Delaval

In hollow murmurs o’er the bending reeds
Sorrow’s keen accents sweep across the meads;
And as the grief-charg’d sound moves sad along,
Unstrings the lute, and stills the wood nymph’s song.
O’er all the sad’n’d scene the mournful train,
In keenest anguish, join the solemn strain;
Whilst recollection, with tenacious power,
Thickens the gloom that damps the passing hour.
The many banner’d trump of clarion fame,
Sounds in full chords the blood stain’d warrior’s name,
Echoes to realms remote, and nations far,
The mighty power of man-destroying war.
Deadens with magic force each softer lay,
That throng’d the courts, and made the vallies gay:
While the vain phantom, honour, barbs the wand,
That waves destruction o’er the smiling land.
And ’midst the accents of her harsher lays,
Shall she forget to sound the good man’s praise?
Forbid it, every spark of social love,
That made, through life, his every passion move;
That taught his heart with sympathy to glow,
To stem the torrent of domestic woe.
Whose open hand strew’d o’er the lowly scene,
Plenty’s gay smiles, and joy’s delighted mien;
Whose presence cheer’d, with animating ray,
Life’s highest walks, and made the gay more gay:
Fitted alike to grace the lordly dome,
Or in the cottage make contentment bloom:
Thy virtues, DELAVAL, we long shall mourn,
And wash, with unfeign’d tears, thy hallow’d urn.
No laurel wreath, nor high poetic lays
Need bloom, or live in song to sound thy praise;
For whilst thy loss our keenest sorrow moves,
O’er all the past, delighted fancy roves;
Each fond remembrance that reverts to thee,
Tells what our present conduct ought to be;
And points, with heavenward aim, to that Dread Power,
Whose mystic means unfolds the future hour;
Cheers the dark gloom of life’s last setting ray,
And leads us on to everlasting day!