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James Thomson - On The Death Of Mr Aikman
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Oh, could I draw, my friend, thy genuine mind,
Just as the living forms by thee designed;
Of Raphael`s figures none should fairer shine,
Nor Titian`s colours longer last than mine.
A mind in wisdom old, in lenience young,
From fervent truth where every virtue sprung;
Where all was real, modest, plain, sincere;
Worth above show, and goodness unsevere.
Viewed round and round, as lucid diamonds throw
Still as you turn them a revolving glow,
So did his mind reflect with secret ray,
In various virtues, Heaven`s internal day;
Whether in high discourse it soared sublime,
And sprung impatient o`er the bounds of Time, 
Or wandering nature through with raptured eye,
Adored the hand that turned yon azure sky;
Whether to social life he bent his thought, 
And the right poise of mingling passions sought
Gay converse blessed; or in the thoughtful grove
Bid the heart open every source of love;
New varying lights still set before your eyes
The just, the good, the social, or the wise.
For such a death who can, who would refuse
The friend a tear, a verse the mournful muse? 
Yet pay we just acknowledgment to heaven,
Though snatched so soon, that Aikman e`er was given.
A friend, when dead, is but removed from sight,
Hid in the lustre of eternal light;
Oft with the mind he wonted converse keeps
In the lone walk, or when the body sleeps
Lets in a wandering ray, and all elate
Wings and attracts her to another state;
And, when the parting storms of life are o`er, 
May yet rejoin him in a happier shore.
As those we love, decay, we die in part,
String after string is severed from the heart;
Till loosened life at last — but breathing clay,
Without one pang, is gald to fall away.
Unhappy he who latest feels the blow,
Whose eyes have wept o`er every friend laid low,
Dragged lingering on from partial death to death;
And dying, all he can resign is breath.
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