Consolatory
Rhymes
to
Mrs.
East
,
On
the
Death
of
her
Canary
Bird
.
Since
Kings
,
and
Queens
,
and
Duchesses
must
die
,
And
crowns
and
frokins
undistinguish'd
lie
;
The
Monarch
justled
by
the
saucy
slave
,
And
next
a
Queen's
perhaps
a
Milk-maid's
grave
;
Since
all
their
flight
to
other
climes
must
wing
,
And
even
signor
Boschi
cease
to
sing
;
Grieve
not
your
Bird
:
for
tho'
no
more
his
throat
Melodious
swells
the
sweetly-tortur'd
note
;
Improperly
we
measure
life
by
breath
,
He
ceases
not
to
be
,
who
tastes
of
death
.
When
life
goes
out
,
the
Samian
sages
say
,
We
only
change
our
tenement
of
clay
.
The
Quack
,
once
fam'd
for
curing
ev'ry
ill
,
Lurks
in
a
bolus
,
or
informs
a
pill
.
The
learned
Dunce
,
whom
science
seem'd
to
shun
,
Hums
thro'
his
next
dull
stage
a
bagpipe's
drone
;
While
Wits
,
more
pert
,
the
livelier
notes
become
,
And
teaze
,
and
torture
still
the
tuneless
hum
.
The
wretch
,
who
fatten'd
on
his
neighbour's
spoil
,
Now
crawls
a
spider
,
swoln
with
fraud
and
guile
:
A
softer
form
the
gentle
mind
puts
on
,
While
harden'd
hearts
are
petrify'd
to
stone
.
Perhaps
your
Captive
now
,
on
wings
sublime
,
Once
more
beholds
his
friends
,
and
native
clime
;
Sees
all
his
little
race
about
him
throng
,
And
tells
his
raptures
in
a
sweeter
song
:
Or
else
his
soul
some
Farinelli
warms
,
And
crouded
theatres
confess
his
charms
;
His
cage
,
his
silken
wings
,
and
untaught
note
,
(
All
but
his
Mistress
'
favours
)
quite
forgot
.
So
some
poor
Exile
,
long
in
bondage
kept
,
Dead
to
his
friends
,
and
ev'n
by
strangers
wept
,
Disdaining
bondage
,
tho'
in
chains
of
gold
,
Breaks
thro'
his
prison
,
by
resentment
bold
:
Yet
if
some
gen'rous
friend
,
of
soul
sincere
,
Soften'd
his
fate
,
or
smooth'd
his
bed
of
care
,
Deep
in
his
heart
the
grateful
sense
remains
,
And
when
he
thinks
on
him
,
forgets
his
chains
.
Harmonious
shade
!
what
honours
can
atone
Thy
music
murder'd
,
and
thy
spirit
gone
!
By
thy
false
guardian
left
to
foes
at
large
,
O
most
unworthy
the
important
charge
!
—
What
tho'
no
solemn
mutes
,
of
ghastly
shape
,
Croud
silent
round
thee
,
and
look
sad
in
crape
;
Yet
shall
thy
Mistress
'
tear
adorn
thy
hearse
,
And
all
the
Muse
can
offer
,
Fame
and
Verse
:
Fresh
flow'rs
shall
deck
thee
with
their
earliest
bloom
,
And
yearly
roses
blossom
on
thy
tomb
.
There
too
shall
mournful
Philomel
complain
,
And
on
thy
stone
these
lasting
notes
remain
;
"
Beneath
in
silence
sleeps
,
and
ceas'd
his
song
,
The
Farinelli
of
the
feather'd
throng
:
Of
manners
simple
,
uncorrupt
of
life
,
A
friend
to
harmony
,
a
foe
to
strife
.
This
turf
his
Mistress
to
his
mem'ry
ow'd
,
And
for
his
songs
the
gen'rous
tear
bestow'd
.
"