Whene'er the cruel hand of death

Untimely stops a favourite's breath,

The Muses plaintive numbers tell,

How lov'd he liv'd, how mourn'd he fell;

Catullus wail'd a sparrow's fate,

And Gray immortaliz'd his cat;

Thrice tuneful bard! cou'd I but chime so clever,

My quart, my honest quart, shou'd live for ever.

 

How weak is all a mortal's pow'r

T'avert the death-devoted hour!

Nor can a shape or beauty save

From the sure conquest of the grave;

In vain the Butler's choicest care,

The master's wish, the parson's pray'r;

For when life's lengthen'd to its longest span,

China itself must fall, as well as man.

 

Can I forget how oft my quart,

Has cool'd my cares and warm'd my heart;

When barley lent his balmy aid,

And all his liquid charms display'd;

While orange, and the nut-brown toast,

Swam mantling round the spicy coast;

The sparkling deep I view'd with pleasing eyes,

Nor envy'd Jove the nectar of the skies.

 

The side-board, on that fatal day,

When you in glittering ruin lay,

Griev'd for thy fall—in guggling tone,

Decanters poured out their moan;

A dimness hung on ev'ry glass,

John wonder'd what the matter was;

Corks self-extracted freed the frantic beer,

And sympathizing tankards dropt a tear.

 

Where are the flow'ry wreaths, that bound,

In rosy rings, thy temples round?

The azure stars, whose smiling rays

Promis'd a happier length of days?

The trees that on thy borders grew,

And blossom'd with eternal blue?

Trees, stars, and flowers lie scatter'd on the floor,

And all thy brittle beauties are no more.

 

Hadst thou been form'd of coarser earth,

Had Nottingham but given thee birth,

Or had thy variegated side,

Of Stafford's sable hue been dy'd,

Thy stately fabric had been sound,

Tho' tables tumbled on the ground.

But choicest mould the soonest will decay.

Hear this, ye fair! for you yourselves are clay.