(Written, it is believed, by Miss Warton on the Death of her Father Thomas Warton the Elder)
Accept, O sacred shade, this artless verse,
And kindly, O ye mourning friends, forbear,
To rend disdaining from his decent herse.
All I can give except the tender tear.
He must not lie in his cold grave, among
Poor shrieking ghosts, unpraised, unwept, unsung.
Ah! where was I when fiercely-frowning Death,
With brandished dart stood at still mid)iight nigh,
Why came I not to catch his dying breath
And close with trembling hand thy languid eye?
On my sad breast to lay thy drooping head,11
And bathe with tears thy hand so cold and dead?
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