William Shenstone (Уильям Шенстон)
Elegy. On the Untimely Death of a Certain Learned Acquainance
If proud Pygmalion quit his cumbrous frame, Funereal pomp the scanty tear supplies; Whilst heralds loud, with venal voice, proclaim, Lo! here the brave and the puissant lies. When humbler Alcon leaves his drooping friends, Pageant nor plume distinguish Alcon's bier; The faithful Muse with votive song attends, And blots the mournful numbers with a tear. He little knew the sly penurious art; That odious art which Fortune's favourites know: Form'd to bestow, he felt the warmest heart, But envious Fate forbade him to bestow. He little knew to ward the secret wound; He little knew that mortals could ensnare: Virtue he knew; the noblest joy he found To sing her glories, and to paint her fair. Ill was he skill'd to guide his wandering sheep; And unforeseen disaster thinn'd his fold; Yet at another's loss the swain would weep; And, for his friend, his very crook was sold. Ye sons of Wealth! protect the Muses' train; From winds protect them, and with food supply: Ah! helpless they, to ward the threaten'd pain, The meagre famine, and the wintry sky! He loved a nymph; amidst his slender store He dared to love, and Cynthia was his theme: He breathed his plaints along the rocky shore; They only echo'd o'er the winding stream! His nymph was fair! the sweetest bud that blows Revives less lovely from the recent shower; So Philomel enamour'd eyes the rose Sweet bird! enamour'd of the sweetest flower. He loved the Muse; she taught him to complain; He saw his timorous loves on her depend: He loved the Muse, although she taught in vain; He loved the Muse, for she was Virtue's friend. She guides the foot that treads on Parian floors; She wins the ear when formal pleas are vain; She tempts Patricians from the fatal doors Of Vice's brothel, forth to Virtue's fane. He wish'd for wealth, for much he wish'd to give; He grieved that virtue might not wealth obtain: Piteous of woes, and hopeless to relieve, The pensive prospect sadden'd all his strain. I saw him faint! I saw him sink to rest! Like one ordain'd to swell the vulgar throng; As though the Virtues had not warm'd his breast, As though the Muses not inspired his tongue. I saw his bier ignobly cross the plain; Saw peasant hands the pious rite supply: The generous rustics mourn'd the friendly swain, But Power and Wealth's unvarying cheek was dry! Such Alcon fell; in meagre want forlorn! Where were ye then, ye powerful Patrons, where? Would ye the purple should your limbs adorn? Go wash the conscious blemish with a tear.
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