To the Memory of Sir Wm. Young, Bart.

How shall the Muse her feeble verse impart,Or speak the anguish of a Daughter's heart?But oh! ere Death may chill the conscious lay,(Lest honour'd Truth should seem Oblivion's prey)'Tis fit the Muse thy gentle kindness rear'd,Should pay one tribute to a friend rever'd!—Tho' stung with follies, and with grief opprest,Thy gen'rous kindness glows within my breast!—Thy sweet benevolence, thy friendly worth,Thy glowing eloquence, thy courteous mirth,Thy spotless honour, thy ingenuous truth,Blends with the mem'ry dear of early youth;And praise, sweet praise, when to thy virtues giv'n,Shall sooth my soul, like music sent from Heav'n!