The Ladies' Garland

FOR THE GARLAND.

ELEGY,
On the Death of Mrs. Manx Bnrax

Whence those sad strains of melancholy woe,
Which pierce the tranquil ear of peaceful rest?
Whence do those moans of heart-rent sorrow flow,
Which rouse such throbbing tumults in the breast?
Why peals that bell its deep and solemn tone--
Striking such thrills of horror to the heart
It tells my anguish'd soul a friend has flown!--
That Death, grim-visag'd, claims the mortal part!

And art thou gone?--Has that mild spirit fled,
Which erst in days of yore bright genius fir'd?
Are all those charms now mould'ring with the dead?
Charms by a native dignity inspir'd!

Yes, Mary's gone!--Attend, ye fair, the strain;
Attend, and kindle, while you read the lay:
Oh! learn from her that magic pow'r to gain,
Which e'en in death emits a glowing ray:

To her, the pictur'd page display'd its lore,
To her, bright fancy all her wealth resign'd;
And arts and letters, from their ample store,
Pour'd forth their treasures to enrich her mind.

These are the charms which death can never fade,
These are the charms which time can ne'er destroy;
These are the beauties, from whose magic aid
The heart is better'd, and each scene gives joy.

She ne'er, in pleasure's gay fantastic round,
Where folly's pageants gild the fleeting scene--
'Mid dissipation's vot'ries, ne'er was found--
Nor knelt to fashion, as an idol queen.

The midnight revel and the giddy dance.
Where Fops and Flirts in gay confusion go;
Like the wild atoms of disorder'd chance--.
To her pure soul no pleasure could bestow.

From scenes like these aloof she kept her way--.
Nor e'en in thought approach'd that thoughtless crew;
Some new improvement crown'd each passing day--
Some mental treasure open'd to the view.

As wife, as mother, daughter, sister, friend:
In all the bland affections of the heart:
In all the duties which to virtue tend,
She, still unrivall'd, play'd her peerless part.

No sigh of envy from her lips e'er stole.
No sneer of malice dwelt upon her tongue;
No rough, discordant rage disturb'd her soul,
Nor fell malignant groans her bosom wrung

The temper gentle, and th' affection warm:
The heart where ev'ry social virtue glow'd--
The tranquil breast unmov'd by passion's storm;
The mind whence wit and feeling ever flow'd--

These are her boasts--these still unfading charms,
Which gild the thorny labyrinth of life--
Which mend the heart-the soul to rapture warms;
And crown with vict'ry nature's final strife.--

And could not these appease the Tyrant's rage;
And bid life's "purple current" onward flow?
No: Death's keen dart, at his appointed stage,
No charm can stay--no virtue ward the blow.--

Even in that last, that solemn, trying hour;
When suff'ring nature yields the mortal strife--
She, calm and tranquil--strong in virtue's pow'r--
Resign'd, without a sigh, to God her life.

Come, then, ye fair, imbibe instruction here;
Come, pause a moment, round this silent stone--
Come, drop o'er Mary's tomb the pensive tear!
And make her bright perfections all your own.

May, 1824.

OCTAVIAN.