Sir Cuthbert Sharp, ‘Lines on the Death of a Brother’ from Poems on a Variety of Subjects (Sunderland: The Author, 1828), pp.25-27.
O Death! thou universal monster, and
Destroyer of domestic peace! why didst thou
Dart thine arrow at a virtuous youth
Just dawning in the morn of manhood? Why
Didst thou hurry him to thy dread regions,
To dwell forgotten in that darksome cell?
Forgot by’all, except the tender feelings
Of a parent’s heart, and a brother’s fond
Regard. Why, unsparing archer, didst thou
Not shoot thine arrows in the field, where
Human tyrants reign, and ease some slave of
His oppressive load? Alas! these are the
Questions of a tortured mind. If
Nature asks her just demand, there’s none dare
Her deny: who knows but ’tis the mild decree
Of heaven that some bright angel with his
Golden wings, from heaven’s imperial
Court, on errand sent, to waft him to the
Sunny shores of immortality and bliss,
To tune a golden harp in rosy bow’rs,
And walk by silver streams, to drink the pure
Fountain of unmingled joy. If such his
Glorious exit from this world of woe,
Let’s dry our weeping eyes, nor longer let
Them roll with melancholy glare; but let
Us bend the humble knee, in prayer, in
Adoration, and in gratitude, to
God. But keen reflection rushes on my
Mind; the joys of happy days that’s gone, when
We went hand in hand to school, with two green
Satchels, full of sportive play and native
Innocence, roving on the rural banks
Of happiness; we thought that death would never
Come,—such is delusion‘s magic power.
No more he’ll rise at morn, to view the lark
Mount high the scented air to greet the rising
Sun. For now he slumbers in the dark abode
Of death; there no gleam of light can enter;
But one still night of unmolested
Sleep, till time shall be no more. You moon,
Enwrapp’d in murky clouds, at intervals
Throws back her darken’d robes, and smiles upon
His peaceful grave. And when Aurora opes
The gates of day, the binding weeds, waved
By the morn’s chill breeze, shake off their dewy
Tears upon his green spread mound; whilst I, the
Object of despair and sorrow, will wail
At midnight when all nature rests. O John!
I bid thee now adieu, thy weary soul
Has found a home; but I must wander still,
In this drear world, to bear the bleak winds of
Sorrow, care, and pain, till, nipt by the cold
Hand of death, I die—I sleep, and mingle
With thy dust.