ON THE DEATH OF THE TRULY PIOUS, AND BRAVE
Who was Slain by the Rebel-Forces, Sept. 21, 1745, in the fatal Action at Preston-Pans,
BY THE REV. MR. THOMAS GIBBONS.
Nam, dum duelli lætior, hostica
Opprobriorum murmura vindice
Excusat ense, barbararum
Immortuus aggeribus cohortum;
Præsecta tandem colla volubili
Lapsu reclinat. Sed famulâ prope
Decusque, præsignisque virtus,
Semianimem subiere dextrâ :
Mox, expeditis corpore manibus,
Depræliatrix gloria siderum
Occurrit, et fulvo reclinans
Ire jubet super astra curru.
COME, Melancholy, from the stony cave,
The scoop of time for thee has made,
Under the broad cliff's shade,
Upon the naked shore,
Where warring tempests roar
In concert with the hoarse resounding wave:
Come, but with solemn gait,
With trickling eyes,
And heavy sighs,
And all the escutcheon'd pomp of fate;
And bring with thee the cypress, and the yew,
All bath'd and dropping with the mortal dew,
To this sequester'd bower;
And let the midnight hour
Be hung in deeper glooms by thee,
And bid each gay idea flee :
While all the baleful images of woe,
That haunt the marble bust,
Or hover round sepulchred dust,
With conscious horrors all my soul o'erflow,
For 'tis no vulgar death
Urania means to mourn;
But in a doleful strain
She bids the harp complain,
And hangs the funeral wreath
On Gardiner's awful urn.
But vain the wish.-The savage hand of war-
Oh how shall words the mournful tale declare!
Too soon the news afflicted friendship hears,
Too soon, alas, confirm'd her boding fears.
Struck with the sound, unconscious of redress,
She felt thy wounds, and wept severe distress.
A while dissolv'd in truceless grief she lay,
And mourn'd the event of that unhappy day,
Which left thee to relentless rage a prey.
At length kind fame suspends our heaving sighs,
And wipes the sorrows from our flowing eyes;
Gives us to know, thine exit well supply'd
Those blooming laurels, victory deny'd.
When thy great soul suppress'd each timid moan,
And soar'd triumphant in a dying groan,
Thy fall, which rais'd, now calms each wild complaint,
Thy fall, which join'd the hero to the saint.
As o'er the expiring lamp the quivering flame
Collects its lustre in a brighter gleam,
Thy virtues, glimmering on the verge of night,
Through the dim shade diffus'd celestial light;
A radiance, death or time can ne'er destroy,
The auspicious omen of eternal joy.
Hence every unavailing grief! No more
As hapless, thy removal we deplore.
Thy gushing veins, in every drop they bleed,
Of patriot warriors shed the fruitful seed.
Soon shall the ripen'd harvest rise in arms
To crush rebellion's insolent alarms.
While prosperous moments sooth'd through life his way, Conceal'd from public view the hero lay:
But when affliction clouded his decline,
It not eclips'd, but made his honours shine;
Gave them to beam conspicuous from the gloom,
And plant unfading trophies round his tomb.
So stars are lost, amidst the blaze of day;
But when the sun withdraws his golden ray,
Refulgent through the atherial arch they roll,
And gild the wide expanse from pole to pole.
ON THE DEATH OF THE TRULY PIOUS, AND BRAVE
Who was Slain by the Rebel-Forces, Sept. 21, 1745, in the fatal Action at Preston-Pans,
BY THE REV. MR. THOMAS GIBBONS.
Nam, dum duelli lætior, hostica
Opprobriorum murmura vindice
Excusat ense, barbararum
Immortuus aggeribus cohortum;
Præsecta tandem colla volubili
Lapsu reclinat. Sed famulâ prope
Decusque, præsignisque virtus,
Semianimem subiere dextrâ :
Mox, expeditis corpore manibus,
Depræliatrix gloria siderum
Occurrit, et fulvo reclinans
Ire jubet super astra curru.
COME, Melancholy, from the stony cave,
The scoop of time for thee has made,
Under the broad cliff's shade,
Upon the naked shore,
Where warring tempests roar
In concert with the hoarse resounding wave:
Come, but with solemn gait,
With trickling eyes,
And heavy sighs,
And all the escutcheon'd pomp of fate;
And bring with thee the cypress, and the yew,
All bath'd and dropping with the mortal dew,
To this sequester'd bower;
And let the midnight hour
Be hung in deeper glooms by thee,
And bid each gay idea flee :
While all the baleful images of woe,
That haunt the marble bust,
Or hover round sepulchred dust,
With conscious horrors all my soul o'erflow.
For 'tis no vulgar death
Urania means to mourn;
But in a doleful strain
She bids the harp complain,
And hangs the funeral wreath
On Gardiner's awful urn.
Gardiner, what various fame
For ever crowns thy name!
Nor is it possible to say,
Or if the saint's, or hero's ray
Shone brightest in that blended blaze,
That form'd thine ample round of praise.
Like Moses on the sacred hill,
How hast thou stood with pleading eyes,
Outstretching hands, and fervent cries,
Unwearied wrestler with the skies!
Till heaven, responsive to thy will,
Would all thy largest wishes fill;
Till the high-brandish'd bolt aside was thrown,
And the full blessing stream'd in silver murmurs down.
Nor less a Joshua, than a Moses, thou;
For oft in liberty's high strife
Hast thou expos'd thy generous life,
And with impatient ardors on thy brow,
Rush'd foremost in the horrid van of fight,
Driving the troops of tyranny to flight,
Unshaken in the noble cause,
To pluck her bloody fangs, and break her iron jaws.
When Anna sent her chosen chief,
Victorious Marlborough,
To Europe's groans to give relief
In Bourbon's overthrow;
Renown'd Ramilia's tented field,
Where Gallia dropt her idle shield,
And to the British standard kneel'd,
Beheld young Gardiner there.
Young Gardiner, where the combat mow'd
The falling ranks, and widely strow'd
Destruction and despair,
Wielded serene his youthful arms,
And, kindling at the dire alarms,
Enjoy'd the raging war:
But here, (for steel and flying shot
Fall chiefly to the hero's lot,)
Swift through his lips the glancing bullet rung,
His lips, on which the unfinish'd oath was hung;
Nor stopt its wing'd impetuous force
Till through the neck it plough'd its angry course.
Amazing thought! that they who life expose,
Where all the thunder of the battle glows,
Who see pale death triumphant ride
Upon the crimson's surging tide,
Scattering his shafts on every side,
In blasphemy and proud contempt should rise,
And hurl their mad defiance to the skies;
Whither a moment may convey
Their souls, dislodging from their quivering clay,
To take their last inexorable doom,
Loaded with deathless pains, and long despair to come.
Such Gardiner was in early youth;
And though the warrior's rays
Beam'd round his head, celestial truth
He spurn'd, and scorn'd her ways:
And, though the Almighty arm was near,
Made his endanger'd life its care,
And heal'd the burning sores;
Yet vice, collecting with his strength,
Soon, soon bursts out in wilder length,
And like a torrent roars.
Now in the wide enchanting bowl
The hero melts his manly soul;
And now he blots the shades of night
With blacker scenes of lewd delight:
Anon in sport he lifts his brow to heaven,
And swears by the eternal name;
Asks, that the bolt may on his head be driven,
And courts the lagging flame.
So Pharaoh, when the feverish blains
No more emboss'd his flesh,
Nor shot infection through his veins,
Assum'd his rage a-fresh;
And hard, grew harder still,
And propp'd on his wild will,
Set up the standard of his pride,
Curs'd Israel's God and King, and all his plagues defy'd.
But, muse, in softer notes relate,
For softer notes upon thee wait,
How Gardiner, when his youth had rang'd
These guilty scenes, to heaven estrang'd,
Paus'd in his mid career, and was divinely chang'd.
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