A speaker mourns a young man, Richard Boyle, who died too soon. If worth and friendship can stir the heart, she says, then he deserves this sad song. She pictures May dew and frail flowers—lily, snowdrop—on his grave, with cherubs singing overhead. The poem admits his human frailties, but insists his polished mind made the young admire him and the old forgive. When fate pressed him down, Justice carried his virtues to God’s throne, while oblivion buried his youthful follies. The speaker then hopes his spirit will accept a pity-born tear. In the end, a weeping Muse bends over his dark bier, mourning her darling son—the only parent his sorrows ever knew. The mood is soft and elegiac, full of gentle grief and a consoling sense that goodness outlasts earthly life.
Lines to the memory of Richard Boyle, Esq. — Summary
"Fate snatch'd him early to the pitying sky."
POPE.
IF WORTH, too early to the grave consign'd, Can claim the pitying tear, or touch the mind ? If manly sentiments unstain'd by art, Could waken FRIENDSHIP, or delight the heart ? Ill-fated youth ! to THEE the MUSE shall pay The last sad tribute of a mournful lay; On thy lone grave shall MAY'S soft dews be shed, And fairest flowrets blossom o'er thy head; The drooping lily, and the snow-drop pale, Mingling their fragrant leaves, shall there recline, While CHERUBS hov'ring on th' ethereal gale, Shall chaunt a requiem o'er the hallow'd shrine. And if Reflection's piercing eye should scan The trivial frailties of imperfect MAN; If in thy generous heart those passions dwelt, Which all should own, and all that live have felt; Yet was thy polish'd mind so pure, so brave, The young admir'd thee, and the old forgave.
And when stern FATE, with ruthless rancour, press'd Thy withering graces to her flinty breast; Bright JUSTICE darted from her bless'd abode, And bore thy VIRTUES to the throne of GOD; While cold OBLIVION stealing o'er thy mind, Each youthful folly to the grave consign'd.
O, if thy purer spirit deigns to know Each thought that passes in this vale of woe, Accept the incense of a tender tear, By PITY wafted on a sigh sincere. And if the weeping MUSE a wreath could give To grace thy tomb, and bid thy VIRTUES live; THEN Wealth should blush the gilded mask to wear, And Avarice shrink the victim of Despair. While GENIUS bending o'er thy sable bier, Should mourn her darling SON with many a tear, While in her pensive form the world should view The ONLY PARENT that thy SORROWS knew.