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To the Bemory of NICHOLAS ROWE, ESQ. Who died in 1715, aged 45; And of CHARLOTTA, his only Daughter
WIFE OF HENRY EARLE, ESQ.
Who, imitating her Father's spirit,
Died in the 22nd year of her age,
THY relics, Rowe! to this sad shrine we trust,
To these so mourn'd in death, so lov'd in life!
ALL cold, beneath this narrow heap
For her each gentle bosom grieves;
And see, the woodbine loves to stray,
Here Melancholy, lonely maid,
Over Saul and Jonathan.
ON yonder hills that kiss the sky,
The flow'r of Israel droops her head; Her sweets are lost, her beauties die,
And all her vernal charms are fled. On yonder hills that kiss the sky,
Pathetic lute, with sorrow swell,.
Forbear, O fame, with haughty strains, In Gath to tell the gloomy tale; Forbear, on Ascalonia's plains,
To bid the fatal theme prevail; Lest Palestina's maids rejoice,
And strike the gay triumphal shell; Lest heathen maids with choral voice Sing loudly how the mighty fell.
No more, ye hills, may genial dews Your soil with liberal bounty crown; more may heaven its boons diffuse, And shower the ripe oblation down:
For there the joys of Israel fled,
Your crimson rills proclaim too well; For there the chiefs and heroes bled, Th' anointed king, the mighty fell.
With valour heav'd the princes breast;
An arm of fate the monarch rear'd; They smil❜d, and Israel's sons were blest They frown'd, and all Philistia fear'd. As eagles fleet, as lions keen,
They glow'd the martial soul to quell ; The bow was bent, the sword was seen, The warrior bled, the mighty fell.
When peace her downy wing display'd,
And all their words were kind and dear Their virtues blest a laughing land;
With joy, ye sons of Israel, tell: O tell with tears, how hand in hand The royal pair, the mighty fell.
O now, ye maids of Israel sing
The sweet, the sad, the tender lay; Bewail your lord, bewail your king, And weep your pearly eyes away:
Who bade you scarlet robes to wear,
Who gave your charms the winning spell, Who clad in gold-my lute forbear!
On yonder heights the mighty fell.
And, oh! my second self, my friend,
For thee mine eyes with sorrow flow: To mournful lays, dear shade, attend,
And hear me touch the lute of woe.
On yonder hills, that kiss the sky,
And all her vernal charms are fled.
Pathetic lute, with sorrow swell,
Translation from Farrer's Hebrew Poems.