The Sun.
London, England, 1818-10-28 00:00:00

P 0 F. 'f ft Y.

the MEMORY of the AuTunics intimate FRIEND,
captain TURNER, of the 33,1 Iteg;tnent, who was lust
with his Lady, in his passage to Ireland, October 1771.

And is it he—my Friend, whom fancy sees
Deform'el with ooze—the sport of winds and seas
It is—by conscience, virtue half suppress'd,
IIarli! the lovr sigh just murmurs from his hreast,
And see the imploring eye to hear'n address'd.
Oft has the temper of his soul unquell'd,
Itis'n 'midst the horrors of the martial field;
Andsinlis it now unequal to the n•eiLiit ?
Or mourns the soldier an unwarlike fate?
Alas! no private sorrow breathes the sigh,
No wish for life informs with pray'r the eye;
But hi! within his arms the fainting fair, )
'Tis she—respect ye pow'rs his only care,
Anil shield her feeble spirits from► despair.)
Oh! save her yet ! his piety reward,
Or let their infant offspring claim regard,
Itylio haply mad• lament her life deny'd,
A mother's soft endearments ill supplied.
Vain is the suit—to fall, ;Ind in their bloom,
To quit each dearest charity, their doom ;
No friend is near to close the lifeless eve:
'l•hat List sail office strangers' hands supply.
Yet ye are bless'il—the heart's short flutter o'er,
Life's sickly damps can cloud your rays no more ;
Your virtues vig'rons from the blow,
Leave all that sullied, all that pain 'd below.
Yon stars that plunge in ocean but retire
!Soon to reclaim their skies, and !ream with keener fire.

Yes—ye*are blest—each fell of each possess'd,
No wound left rankling in the widow'd hreast.
At once your pulses ceas'd their anxious play,
One struggling moment gave you both to day,
To climes, where love like yours unfailing rise,
Nor dread the blight of sublunary skies.
Yes—le are blest—yet oh! forgive the sigh,
That fondly seems to ask you front the sky,
And speaks the weakness of mortality.
Say, my lov'il TURN, Et, can the f•eling Muse,
Whets sad remembrance all her loss renews
When it recals the features of thy mind,
Manly, yet soft, and viterous tho' retin'd :
The breast where friendship dwelt, and truth unstain'il.
And strong religion, not a bigot, reign'd:
The expanded heart, that to each human grief,
Made the eye flow, or hand extend relief:
Thu' now immortal in a nobler sphere,
Say, can the Muse but weep their absence here ?
Yes, she must weep—in strains her woes eXCI3,C,
For fancy's gaudy dress ill suits the mourner Muse—
Who sighs unpractis'il in the arts of woe,
Whose er'ry tear is nature's genuine flow.

Falls the good man, who walk'd the vale of life,
Haply too fine fur rough ambitious strife ?
'l'l►e noiseless virtues share the mortal's doom,
Lost in the cold oblivion of the tomb.
Or should some friend by grateful meru'ry led,
Who felt the living- worth record the dead, •
The lay scarce guarded by the Sculptor's art,
But shews some lonely eye the faintly pictur'd heart.
Not thus—when greatness stoops beneath the blow,
A thouQand lyres exalt the pompous woe:
The venal muses drop th' embalming tear,
And genius heaps his incense round the bier.
When lawless cornets with disastrous glare,
Stream tbro' the skies, and taint the wholesome air,
All gaze, while scarcely notic'd shines the beam,
That thro' revolving worlds malres nature teem.
Yet, unsedue'd by guilty splendor's blaze,
One eye shall turn to virtue genial rays—
One Muse, my TurtNEK, yft, to merit true,
Pay the last Piety—a verse to you.

C. S.