No Inspiration o'er my pen
Glows with the lightning's vivid spell;
My soul is sad—forgive me then,
My heart's too full the tale to tell!
Yet, if the humblest poet's theme
Be welcome in Eliza's name;
Then, angel, give the cheering gleam,
For thy approving smile is fame!
ELEGY
On THE DEATH OF
ABRAHAM GOLDSMID, ESQ.
When stern Misfortune, monitress severe!
Dissolves Prosperity's enchanting dreams,
And, chased from Man's probationary sphere,
Fair Hope withdraws her vivifying beams.
If then, untaught to bend at Heaven's high will,
The desp'rate mortal dares the dread unknown,
To future fate appeals from present ill,
And stands, uncall'd, before th' Eternal throne!
Shall justice there immutably decide?
Dread thought! which Reason trembles to explore,
She feels, be mercy granted or denied,
'Tis her's in dumb submission to adore.
Yet, could the self-doom'd victim be forgiven
His final error, for his merits past;
Could virtuous life, propitiating Heaven
With former deeds, extenuate the last:
Then GOLDSMID! Mercy, to thy humble shrine,
Angel of heaven beloved, should wing her flight,
Should in her bosom bid thy head recline,
And waft thee onward to the realms of light.