ELEGY
ON THE DEATH OF MR. PETER ABEEL, WHO CEASED TO EXIST ON THE 30TH ULT.
The awful sound of death—the tolling bell,
With solemn sadness strikes the list’ning ear:
While sighs responsive to its gloomy knell,
Proclaim the loss of what was held most dear.
In prime of life, e’er manhood had begun,
A virtuous youth was number’d with the dead;
E’er nineteen years their wonted course had run,
Abeel’s chaste soul to other regions fled.
Untainted yet by pleasure’s ’witching smile,
Of manners easy, affable and free
A conscience pure, and void of specious guile,
An upright heart, and noble mind had he.
But, ah! integrity can nought avail,
Nor innocence arrest the fleeting breath!
E’en purity like his we now bewail
Could not repel the pow’rful shaft of death.
That form which late with youthful vigour teem’d,
The fierce attack of sickness could not brave;
The eye in which bright animation beam’d,
Has lost its splendour in the silent grave.
Oh! Death, couldst thou not stay thine active arm,
’Till age had strew’d its winters o’er his head:
Till life’s enjoyment could no longer charm,
And earthly pleasures had forever fled.
Then thine approach more welcome would have been,
And less regretted thy reverseless doom;
Age would have render’d thy attack less keen,
And smooth’d the rugged passage to the tomb.
But youth—luxuriant season of delight,
When pleasing fancies fill the teeming brain;
Was soon by thee transform’d to endless night—
To night, on which no morn shall dawn again.
But through th’ obscurity of this dark gloom,
The eye of hope can safely penetrate;
And far beyond the precincts of the tomb,
A gleam of comfort checks the pow’r of fate.
For virtue ne’er shall unrewarded be,
Nor innocence in death forego its charms;
Soon may we hope in heav’n our friend to see,
Securely resting in his Maker’s arms.
ALEXIS.
New-York, Sept. 8, 1796.
