The Fathers Tears over his Daughters Remains, Poem
An EPISTLE To the Reverend Mr. Ebenezer Turell, Occaſioned by the Death Of his late Virtuous CONSORT. By the Reverend Mr. JOHN ADAMS.
WHY hangs ſuch Sorrow on your penſive Brow?
Say Turell, why the Tears ſo freely flow?
If you lament the lovely Partner fled,
In vain you heave the Sighs, or Rivers ſhed.
The Darts of Death within her Boſom deep
Have urg'd the fatal Wound, and fix'd the laſting Sleep.
Th' impartial Tyrant round his Arrows throws,
Nor heeds our Pray'rs, nor melts before our Vows.
The Charms of Beauty wither from his Hands,
As fades a Flower, and to a Tempeſt bends.
Nor Eloquence can ſooth, nor Virtue awe,
Nor Force repell the Pow'r of Nature's Law.
To Limits fix'd, our deſtin'd Courſe we bend,
And with reſiſtleſs Haſte to Death's pale Empire tend.
From Scene to Scene our ſhifting Moments go,
And then return the Ground the Duſt we owe.
As glides the pictur'd Dream before our Sight,
Wing'd with the fleeting Shadows of the Night,
So born upon the quick ſucceeding Hours
We drop in Death, and drink ſurviving Showers.
Adown our Cheeks th' unwearied Currents ſhed
Can ne'r revive, but may increaſe the Dead.
Had you the Lyre of Orpheus, which could move
The quickned Stones, and each attentive Grove;
Or could you flow in ſuch a moving Strain
As Turell warbled to the liſtning Plain;
In vain the tender Plaints would charm her Ears,
Bound to the breathing Conſort of the Spheres.
Who would the doubtful Maze of Life repeat,
Where flattering Scenes the guilded Fancy cheat?
Where Cares and Sorrows circle thro' our Years,
While future Evils riſe before our Fears?
And feel the Fires of heavenly Rapture die,
And blot with Tears the Viſions of the Sky?
None that had taſted of ſublimer Springs,
Could feel a Thirſt for theſe inferiour Things.
As who a Lawn, diſtinct with ſilver Rills,
Would change for burning Sands, or broken Hills?
Or in the Covert of a lonely Cell
From all the beauteous Realms of Phoebus Steal;
When ſmiling Proſpects and unfading Greens
Courted his Sight with their enamell'd Scenes,
And all the Arch of Heaven's expanded Sky
Burnt with unnumber'd Glories to his Eye?
Thro' Death's dark Valley, winding out her Way,
The Saint has opened to a Blaze of Day.
The Shades, now nearer, hang upon your Sight,
But ſtill they border on eternal Light.
So when the gathering Clouds the Skies deform
The Air is dark, and Nature wears the Storm,
While all above is ſpread a ſmooth Serene,
And ting'd with Light the gilded Vapours ſhine.
Let not thoſe Glories which ſhould bring Relief
Expire in Shades, and fade in Floods of Gri…f.
But while the Skies th' aſpiring Spirit claim,
Behold her Picture and enjoy her …ame.
Nature had ſhed upon her ample Mind
It's various Gifts, which Art had well refin'd.
In her, paternal Touches you might trace
To ſhape her Mind, and form each future Grace:
And ſoon her Virtues into Proſpect rais'd
The Father's Care, but moſt the GOD confeſs'd.
He ſmooth'd her Strains, and tun'd her ſacred Lyre,
And breath'd within her Soul Seraphick Fire.
Even now, the flowing Numbers left behind
Reflect the Features of her virtuous Mind.
Nor yet of all the Nymphs that grace the Plain,
Has one appear'd to ſing ſo ſweet a Strain.
But moſt, Devotion did its Power diffuſe,
Soul of her Soul, the Spirit of her Muſe.
Of all her heavenly Tempers this was chief,
Liv'd in her Heart, and liv'd within her Life.
Witneſs her Cloſet, whence her glowing Prayers,
Wing'd with celeſtial Vigour, reach'd her Father's Ears.
There GOD vouchſaf'd to be her frequent Gueſt,
And ſunk in Calms the Tumults of her Breaſt.
Happy, when thus retir'd from human Eyes,
New Scenes of Glory open'd from the Skies.
Free from Ambition She deſpis'd the Charms
Of tempting Riches, circled in its Arms;
But lov'd the Silence of the rural Scenes,
And oft would rove amidſt th' embroider'd Greens;
Where Zephyrs fann'd her with their cooling Wings,
And Birds in Conſort ſung with murmuring Springs.
There She could move thro' Nature's artful Maze,
And contemplate on what the Simple gaze.
Ah fade ye Greens! and weep ye gliding Rills!
Droop all ye Flow'rs! in Vapour riſe ye Hills!
Ye Zephyrs into mourning Murmurs turn,
And gather Clouds for Tears for Turell's Urn!
The tender Tyes of nuptial Life She grac'd,
And all the Mother to the Child expreſs'd:
The beſt of Daughters in her Carriage ſhone,
She felt the Friend, and charm'd the weeping Town.
Few were her Words, but choſe and weighty too,
We could not blame, but griev'd they were ſo few.
A ſteady Wiſdom led her cautious Life,
Conceal'd the Whiſper, and forbid the Strife.
Deep Contemplation ting'd her ſerious Mind,
Broke thro' her Eyes, and in her Aſpect ſhin'd.
Nor did her ſtedfaſt Virtue 'ere refuſe,
In gayer Hours her graver Thoughts to loſe;
Nor Wit to lend its Aid to Innocence,
To raiſe our Pleaſure, and to point her Senſe.
Politely read, what various Books ſhe knew?
Which on her Mind unfading Traces drew.
Nor was She vain, nor ſtain'd with thoſe Neglects,
In which too learned Females loſe their Sex.
But now, ah! now, the heavy Shades of Night
Have ſeal'd her Eyes, and ſunk her from our Sight.
Th' Etherial Picture has forſook our Eyes,
To gain the perfect Touch within the Skies.
There all the Shadows will appear below,
But all above the heightned Features glow.
Nor could the fainter Light our Sphere imparts
Reveal the Beauties which the Draught aſſerts.
Now, in a proper Point of Viſion plac'd,
The kindled Graces are to Life expreſs'd.
Fain would the Muſe her Plaintive Numbers ceaſe,
And loſe her Sorrows in theſe Realms of Bliſs.
But TAYLOR ‡Mrs. Elizabeth Taylor, the lovely Conſort of the Rev. Mr. John Taylor, Paſtor of the Church in Milton, and Daughter of the late Reverend Mr. Nathanael Rogers of Portſmouth in New Hampſhire, died April 16, 1735. three Weeks after Mrs. Turell, and alike eſteemed and lamented by all that knew her.calls me downward, and demands
Tears from my Eyes, and Cypreſs from my Hands.
Snatch'd in a ſudden Shade, She gave her Breath,
And all her Boſom wears the Dews of Death.
Nipt in the beauteous Bloom of Youth She lies
A faded Flower, bedew'd by numerous Eyes.
O could our Tears revive ſo fair a Flower,
Sure every Eye would ſpring the quick'ning Show'r.
Sure you would weep, ye tender Offspring! too;
But Years forbid the Stream to Nature due.
But moſt the recent Babe, too ſoon deny'd
The Boſom, whence he drew the vital Tyde.
Ah! why ye Bards! is Taylor's Hapleſs Hearſe,
Undeck'd with Garlands of unfading Verſe!
She lov'd your Strains; your ſpringing Bays would riſe,
Green with the falling Showr's of friendly Eyes.
Fair was her Face, but fairer was her Mind,
Where all the Muſes, all the Graces join'd.
For tender Paſſions turn'd, and ſoft to pleaſe,
With all the graceful Negligence of Eaſe.
Her Soul was form'd for nicer Arts of Life,
To ſhew the Friend, but moſt to grace the Wife.
O had kind Heaven her longer Glories lent,
And ſpar'd the plaintive Tears which now are ſpent!
And may theſe Numbers, dying o're her Urn,
Excite ſome ſofter Muſe her Fate to mourn.
If Nature ſhould forbid the Power to praiſe,
Even Sorrow might create the melting Lays.
Ah! die ye Roſes in each faded Fair!
Let in each Eye-lid hang the pearly Tear;
For drooping now, ſequeſtr'd Shades impend
The boaſted Flow'rs, that open'd on the Land.
Ye riſing Laurels flouriſh in a Shade,
And with protecting Greens embrace the Dead!
While Joys Immortal widen in their Breaſt,
And Heavenly Viſions charm the Stranger Bleſt.
Tho' now the Tears demand to leave our Eyes,
We ſoon ſhall ſee the fair Immortals riſe,
And with new Figures grace the wondring Skies.
The piercing Trump ſhall wake up every Charm,
And bid their Spirits their cold Aſhes warm.
While heightned into Form by Heavenly Art,
Their finiſh'd Features fiercer Fires will dart.
Before the vivid Glory of their Frames,
The Sun it ſelf ſhall fade in paler Flames.
O let theſe Saints inſpire to tread the Way,
That leads and opens to ſo bright a Day.
Be ſunk ye fading Scenes! ye Heavenly riſe!
Let every Boſom burn to gain the Skies!
Ye Clouds of Sorrow! ſcatter all away,
And let the Purple Skies diffuſe the ſmiling Day.
Ah! ſhould our Eyes be dim with burſting Tears,
When Heaven's ſurrounding Landskip ſpreads on Theirs?
What mean the Murmurs of our penſive Moan?
Hear Their melodious Muſic warble down;
While all the Rivers of their Joy upbraid
Thoſe Tears which only for our Selves are ſhed.
Their ſnowy Robes, which drink celeſtial Light,
Should thro' the ſhades of Mourning ſtrike our Sight,
If we behold the melted Weepers nigh;
The circling Seraphs ſparkle on their Eye:
And JESUS in ſublimer Charms confeſs'd,
Diſpenſes all his Fires to warm their Breaſt.
Here, Bodies moulder in a narrow Tomb,
There, boundleſs Empires riſe, and Fields of Glory bloom.
But if the Showers of Sorrow muſt deſcend,
Let pious Tears our Penitence attend,
The precious Drops like pearly Seed be ſown,
Till in the golden Fields of Zion grown,
The Harveſt ſhall ariſe in Heavenly Light,
And all diſtinguiſh'd wave upon the Sight.
So when the ſpreading Clouds their Tears beſtow,
The blooming Iris bends her varied Bow,
The falling Drops with living Colours dies,
And every Glory glitters thro' the Skies;
While iſſuing Phaebus paints the ſable Veil,
Whoſe envious Shades his Beauties would conceal.