Whence does this sudden, fatal Change proceed?
For lo! Despair on ev'ry Brow I read,
All shake their mournful Heads and pensive stand.
As the last dreadful Judgment were at hand:
Aurelia, the fair Parent of Delight,
So wont with smiling Looks to greet our Sight,
Beneath her Roof the Stranger Grief receives,
Her Bosom with unusual Anguish heaves,
Her Eyes, that quick as Lightning shot around,
Now indolently fix'd upon the Ground,
Some sudden Shock of inward Grief confess,
See! every Look betrays the deep Distress.
Alas! the Cause too just, that drowns her Eyes,
Too plain the Source, from whence her Sorrows rise!
Damon, the lovely, cheerful Youth is dead,
And with him all our boasted Joys are fled,
In every Mouth I hear the moving Tale,
With constant weeping every Cheek grows pale,
Damon from every Eye demands a Tear,
And damps the jovial Season of the Year.

Behold, how abject is our earthly State!
A Thread that hangs between the Sheers of Fate:
Conscious of Grief, and sensible of Pain,
Short are our Pleasures, and those short ones vain;
From Hour to Hour we draw precarious Breath,
And blindly trample on the Snares of Death.
Our mortal Frame no mortal Pow'r can save,
Struggling thro' Care and Sorrow to the Grave,
Death lurks in every Shape, and every Breeze
Of Air we draw is big with some Disease,
Our Traytor--senses, in the civil Strife,
Let in the Foe to seize upon our Life;
We bloom, like Lillies, with the dawning Light,
And droop like them, and sicken e'er 'tis Night.

Thus Damon bloom'd, and in his Bloom decay'd,
Long e'er 'twas due, the Debt of Nature paid:
But oh! how worthy of a longer Life,
So free from wordy Broils and social Strife;
So fam'd for Candour, Constancy and Truth,
As Cato virtuous, in the Tide of Youth!
In every various graceful Art approv'd,
And loving all Mankind, by all belov'd.
Scarce ever did he frown, but on his Face
Eternal Pleasure laugh'd and youthful Grace,
The Fair still listen'd to his pleasing Strains,
And Damon was the Pride of Medway's Plains.

Blest with his Friendship, but too lately blest!
I sung Te Deum to my joyful Breast;
With eager Hands I seal'd the faithful Vow,
And to my Heart I said, be open now.
Throw by thy worldy Forms and wordly Art,
And all thy Secrets to his Soul impart:
When on a sudden (as a mighty Wind
Roots up the Oak, and leaves the Shrub behind)
A fierce Distemper cropt his early Prime,
While I remain to mourn his Fate in Rhime.
So soon torn from me, and so lately giv'n!
How stinted are thy Blessings, righteous Heav'n!

Patient and graceful, like himself, he dy'd,
Bold as a Martyr, but without his Pride,
He courted not his Fate, disturb'd in Mind,
Nor fear'd the Stroke, but gallantly resign'd:
When Death advanc'd, and in his wounded Heart
He felt, with Pain transfix'd, the mortal Dart;
''My Friends, said he, my dearest Friends, adieu!
''What most I fear in Death, is losing you;
''Thus in the Blossom of our Joys to part!
'''Tis an hard Sruggle with a youthful Heart;
''This Weakness, if it bears that Name, forgive,
''But sure it's none in Youth to wish to live.
''Hadst thou, all--judging Pow'r, prolong'd my Days,
''Each Morning should have open'd with thy Praise;
''But, since thy Hand cuts short my scanty Line,
''Still to thy Dispensations I resign;
''Death is the Doom, in which we all are curst,
''And it's my Lot to go that Journey first;
''Whate'er new Worlds beyond the Grave I find,
''I meet prepar'd, arm'd with a guiltless Mind;
''Once more farewel--and now, ye happy Skies,
''Behold I come: then turn'd and clos'd his Eyes.

In that last Crisis of his ebbing Breath,
Alas! how many suffer'd more than Death!
Numbers of every Rank still feel the Blow;
For who to Damon did not something owe?
In Times of Need, so courteous was his Mind,
All sought him for their Friend, and found him kind,
Ingenuous and benevolent of Heart,
Still ready to protect the injur'd Part,
Proud to oblige, and fearful to offend,
The best, good Neighbour, and the easiest Friend.

Praise and Respect, that turn the giddy Brain,
And make young Men grow insolent and vain,
In Damon's Breast no proud Conceptions wrought,
Laid no wrong Biass on his equal Thought;
He sought not, but he shun'd our vain Applause,
And fought without Reward in Virtue's Cause:
If he had any Fault, 'tis want of Pride,
And that's a Fault on the good--natur'd side;
None were beneath his Notice or his Love,
And yet so happy was he, none above:
All were his Equals, or he made 'em so,
Rose to the high, descended to the low:
Him, in the same frank Manner, might you see
Speaking by turns to Romney--and to Me.

How humble, yet how wealthy was his Mind?
How much to Letters and to Arts inclin'd?
Free from vain Affectation and Conceit,
His Thoughts were manly, his Ideas great;
Quick was his Fancy, and his Judgment strong,
Blest with a modest Fluency of Tongue.

Nor least of all, the mournful Bard admires
His kindred Talents and poetick Fires.
Proud is the Muse amongst her Sons to name
The youthful Heir of such establish'd Fame;
Yet in one Thought she loses half her Pride.
That with his own short Life his Verses dy'd,
Like Virgil, but alas! with more Success,
He damn'd his own fair Fruit, and robb'd the Press:
By his Command the shining Pages burn,
And sink in Ashes, never to return,
Unless to Verse another Life is giv'n,
And with her Bard the Muse revives in Heav'n.

But whilst his Virtues thus my Lays prolong,
His Death recurs and checks me in my Song.
Courteous he was, and learn'd, and good, and just,
But all those Graces now are laid in Dust!

Ye fair ones, that so lovely us'd to smile,
And made our Kent the Paphos of the Isle,
No more your Damon, with unlabour'd Grace,
Joins in the Dance, nor at the Board takes place,
To Joys polite and innocent gives Birth,
Nor thro' the crouded Room diffuses Mirth;
Mix'd with cold Earth, all--motionless he lies,
No more his Bosom beats, nor roll his Eyes;
His comely Limbs now mouldring for the Worms,
The certain Spoilers of the fairest Forms!
But I perceive afresh your Sorrows stream,
And to my self recal the mournful Theme.

Forgive, dear Shade, these plain well--meaning Lays,
That in a native Dress record thy Praise,
This sober Theme a sober Muse demands,
Not one that wanders thro' romantick Lands,
And whines a fairy Tale of Woods and Plains,
And Nymphs bewailing their departed Swains:
When stately Villains unlamented die,
The venal Poet must to Fiction fly,
With foreign Arts his want of Merit hide,
And in the Helps of common--place confide;
The Rivers weep, the Flow'rs forget to bloom,
And browzing Flocks deplore their Shepherd's Doom,
Winds moan his Death, instructed by the Muse,
In mournful Sighs, which human Breasts refuse;
But real Sorrows lessen in Disguise,
And Art is useless when a Damon dies.
Nor needs the Willow to preserve his Fame,
Grav'd in the noblest Bosoms lives his Name:
Romney laments his Death, illustrious Peer!
And ev'ry neighbouring Beauty drops a Tear:
Kent in her Annals will his Loss retain,
'Till at the Judgment--Bar we meet again.