On The Death Of The Rev. Dr. Lloyd, Dean Of Norwich

WHY hang the shades of gloom on ev'ry brow?
Why the melodious Nine in silent grief!
Each tuneful instrument away they throw,
And flee to lonely woods to seek relief.
Some new distress, pale Fear, foreboding, cries,
Some native of the heav'ns from earth is fled:
He's dead! he's gone! each mournful Muse replies,
The Son of Piety and Learning's dead!
Science laments, her fav'rite friend's no more,
And meek Religion sorrows o'er his bier;
Benevolence and Truth his loss deplore,
And ev'ry Christian Virtue drops a tear.
Whilst here, on earth, those Virtues deck'd his mind,
They form'd his Soul for scenes of endless joy;
To which she soars exulting, unconfin'd;
Bright realms, where Pain and Death no more annoy.
While in funereal grandeur's awful gloom,
With solemn sadness, see, they slowly move,
To rest the relics in the hallow'd tomb,
The Spirit flies to meet a Saviour's love.
Yet though his sacred ashes sleep in dust,
Ne'er shall his mem'ry be by Time destroy'd;
He still shall live recorded 'mongst the just,
And ev'ry age revere the name of LLOYD .