On The Death Of Mr. Bassett

WHEN Heav'n the soul requires, not florid youth,
Nor Nature's gilts, by Art improv'd, can save;
Yon awful knell proclaims the solemn truth,
A son of Genius asks an early grave.
In vain each flatt'ring hope of future fame!
Sent by th' unerring voice whom all obey,
In scarlet-spotted vest pale Sickness came,
And beckon'd Death to seize his ready prey.
Thou, tender partner of his joys and cares,
Soft Pity feels thy sighs of poignant woe;
Thy gentle mind no more Life's pleasures shares,
Grief's pointed dart has been thy bosom's foe.
Yet, ah! attend Religion's soothing sound,
Let her thy heart with pleasing hopes impress,
With him to meet where sacred joys abound,
For whom thy soul now sinks in deep distress.
To Death's chill blast his rising honours yield,
Decreed in prime of life to meet his doom;
Youth, merit, shining genius, could not shield,
Nor claim exemption from th' insatiate tomb.
Ah! how precarious, Man, thy mortal state!
How vain thy brightest hopes of bliss below!
Then, O! secure thy life's eternal date,
Amid those joys that ne'er shall cease to flow.