On The Death Of Mrs. Halsey, Aged Nineteen. Poem by Henry Baker

I.

Mourn, O You Muses! mourn, You Virgin Train!
Florinda's gone, the Pride of all the Plain:
Beauteous Florinda, whom the Shepherds sung,
Joy of each Heart, and Praise of every Tongue,
With whose dear Name the smiling Vallies rung.
Sigh to the Winds, and let the Winds reply,
Weep to the Streams, and raise their Waters high,
Complain to Eccho, and bid Eccho tell
The wond'ring Shores, why all their Rivers swell.
Make every Grove, and every Mead around,
With plaintive Moan, and loud Laments resound;
Those flowery Meads o'er which she trip'd along,
Those gladsom Groves which list'ned to her Song.
Bid them, no more stretch forth a verdant Shade,
Bid them, no more a flow'ry Carpet spread,
But bid them die:--for she in whom they joy'd is dead!


II.

Mourn, O You Muses! mourn, You Virgin Train!
Florinda's gone, the Pride of all the Plain:
Amongst ten thousand eminently fair,
With such distinguisht Light the Morning Star
Shines forth, superior, glittering from afar.

Just in the Prime of Life, her heav'nly Charms
Mature, and bending to the Lover's Arms,
Death, cruel Spoiler! came: Shook down the Fruit,
Lop'd all the Branches, and destroy'd the Root.

O! what is Beauty, which Mankind esteem?
Or what is Life?--A momentary Dream,
A fleeting Shade, a Bubble fill'd with Breath,
And wafted by the Winds--the Sport of Death.

That Tyrant Death, whose unrelenting Arm
Force strives in vain to vanquish, Gold to charm;
With Terrors compass'd round, He stalks along,
Despoils the Rich, and overthrows the Strong:
Nor Age, nor Sex, nor Worth, nor Beauty spares,
Blind to the Parent's Woes, deaf to the Lover's Pray'rs.


III.

Mourn, O You Muses! mourn, You Virgin Train!
Florinda's gone, the Pride of all the Plain:
Florinda, lovely as the new--born Spring
Affording Life and Joy to every Thing,
With all the Charms of Youth and Beauty gay,
Is now become a Lifeless Lump of Clay.

Where are those Eyes which set the Plains on fire?
That Bloom which warm'd the Aged with Desire?
That Angel--Sweetness? that Carnation--Glow?
Those Lips of Rubies? and those Breasts of Snow?
Breathless! and pale! and cold! alas! she lies!
Jove's pointed Light'ning has forsook her Eyes,
The Bloom her Cheeks: No longer fair and young:
Fled are her Charms, and silent is her Tongue!

So, some choice Flow'r, the Artist's darling Care,
Displays Its Beauties, and perfumes the Air,
Salutes the rising Sun, and proudly gay,
Folds up its Leaves but with the closing Day,
Nipt by the Eastern Wind, untimely fades,
Its Sweets forsake it, and its Glory sheds.


IV.

Mourn, O You Muses! mourn, You Virgin Train!
Florinda's gone, the Pride of all the Plain:
Behold the Queen of Love, in mournful State,
Veil'd is her Face, and solemn is her Gait,
Her splendid Vestments all are laid aside,
And deep her Groans as when Adonis dy'd.
Her Band of Cupids weeping all around,
Their Bows and Quivers scatter'd on the Ground,
All chanting, sadly, in a mournful Strain,
Death's fatal Pow'r, and Beauty's short--liv'd Reign.

Beauty's the Sunshine of an April Day,
Which gilds the Plains, and makes all Nature gay;
But soon, alas! wide o'er the darken'd Skies,
The gathering Clouds and blust'ring Tempests rise,
Down pour the Rains, the rolling Torrents roar,
Lost is the Sun, and glads the Plains no more.


V.

Mourn, O You Muses! mourn, You Virgin Train!
Florinda's gone, the Pride of all the Plain:
Search wide around amongst the shady Bow'rs,
Collect the fairest and the sweetest Flow'rs;
The Pink, the Lilly, and the Crimson Rose,
A various Garland for her Head compose.
Her lovely Coarse with every Leaf bestrew,
Which boasts a grateful Scent, or pleasing Hue:
The next kind Spring does all their Pride restore,
But She, alas! will ne'er delight us more!

Slow, silent, passing on, in sad Array,
Attend, You Virgins! to inter her Clay,
All rob'd in White: around each drooping Head
Let mournful Cypress cast its gloomy Shade;
The dismal Garland, and the snowy Dress,
Witness her Virtue pure, and your own Wretchedness.

When You approach the melancholy Grave,
Where blended lye, the Monarch and the Slave,
The Good, the Bad, the Timorous, and the Bold,
The Foul, the Fair, the Youthful, and the Old,
Each take a last cold Kiss: Bid Sorrow flow:
Lay down the dear Remains:--and give a Loose to Woe:
Then whilst you joyn in this Solemnity,
Think, what Florinda was, and what your selves must be.


VI

Mourn, O You Muses! mourn, You Virgin Train!
Florinda's gone, the Pride of all the Plain:
But for your selves, not Her, your Sorrows shed,
She's gone, indeed, but not amongst the Dead.
Heav'n has reclaim'd its own:--her beauteous Frame.
Her wond'rous Goodness, told from whence she came;
And Death, the Messenger of gracious Jove,
But call'd Her hence, to fill her Place above.

Behold! the Clouds divide, and from afar
A beauteous Train, each sparkling like a Star,
Gently descends: See, there, Florinda rise,
Bright as the Sun, and blaze along the Skies.
Now, now, They meet: And hark! each Angel sings,
Or blows the Trump, or strikes the Silver Strings,
Celestial Strains! whilst upwards they convey
Their blest Companion to the Realms of Day.