The scene of Death is closed! the mournful strains Dissolve in dying languor on the ear; Yet Pity weeps, yet Sympathy complains, And dumb Suspense awaits o’erwhelm’d with fear: But the sad Muses with prophetic eye At once the future and the past explore; Their harps Oblivion’s influence can defy, And waft the spirit to th’ eternal shore— Then, O Palemon! if thy shade can hear The voice of Friendship still lament thy doom, Yet to the sad oblations bend thine ear, That rise in vocal incense o’er thy tomb: From young Arion first the news received With terror pale, unhappy Anna read; With inconsolable distress she grieved, And from her cheek the rose of beauty fled. In vain, alas! the gentle virgin wept, Corrosive anguish nipt her vital bloom; O’er her soft frame diseases sternly crept, And gave the lovely victim to the tomb: A longer date of woe, the widowed Wife Her lamentable lot afflicted bore; Yet both were rescued from the chains of life Before Arion reached his native shore! The Father, unrelenting phrenzy stung, Untaught in Virtue’s school distress to bear; Severe remorse his tortured bosom wrung, He languished, groaned, and perished in despair. Ye lost companions of distress, adieu! Your toils, and pains, and dangers are no more; The tempest now shall howl unheard by you, While ocean smites in vain the trembling shore; On you the blast, surcharged with rain and snow, In Winter’s dismal nights no more shall beat; Unfelt by you the vertic Sun may glow, And scorch the panting earth with baneful heat: No more the joyful maid, with sprightly strain, Shall wake the dance to give you welcome home; Nor hopeless Love impart undying pain, When far from scenes of social joy you roam; No more on yon wide watery waste you stray, While hunger and disease your life consume, While parching thirst, that burns without allay, Forbids the blasted rose of health to bloom; No more you feel Contagion’s mortal breath, That taints the realms with misery severe; No more behold pale Famine, scattering death, With cruel ravage desolate the year: The thundering drum, the trumpet’s swelling strain Unheard, shall form the long embattled line; Unheard, the deep foundations of the main Shall tremble, when the hostile squadrons join: Since grief, fatigue, and hazards still molest The wandering vassals of the faithless deep; Oh! happier now escaped to endless rest, Than we who still survive to wake, and weep: What though no funeral pomp, no borrowed tear, Your hour of death to gazing crowds shall toll; Nor weeping friends attend your sable bier, Who sadly listen to the passing bell; The tutor’d sigh, the vain parade of woe, No real anguish to the soul impart; And oft, alas! the tear that friends bestow, Belies the latent feelings of the heart: What though no sculptured pile your name displays, Like those who perish in their country’s cause; What though no Epic Muse in living lays Records your dreadful daring with applause,— Full oft the flattering marble bids renown With blazoned trophies deck the spotted name; And oft, too oft, the venal Muses crown The slaves of Vice with never-dying fame:— Yet shall Remembrance from oblivion’s veil Relieve your scene, and sigh with grief sincere; And soft Compassion at your tragic tale In silent tribute pay her kindred tear.