About the Poem
About the poet
Samuel Johnson is a towering figure in the history of English literature, to the extent that the...
On The Death of Dr Robert Levet
Condemn’d to hope’s delusive mine,
As on we toil from day to day,
By sudden blasts, or slow decline,
Our social comforts drop away.
Well tried through many a varying year,
See Levet to the grave descend;
Officious, innocent, sincere,
Of ev’ry friendless name the friend.
Yet still he fills affection’s eye,
Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind;
Nor, lettered arrogance, deny
Thy praise to merit unrefin’d.
When fainting nature called for aid,
And hov’ring death prepar’d the blow,
His vig’rous remedy display’d
The power of art without the show.
In misery’s darkest caverns known,
His useful care was ever nigh,
Where hopeless anguish pour’d his groan,
And lonely want retired to die.
No summons mock’d by chill delay,
No petty gain disdained by pride,
The modest wants of ev’ry day
The toil of ev’ry day supplied.
His virtues walk’d their narrow round,
Nor made a pause, nor left a void;
And sure th’ Eternal Master found
The single talent well employed.
The busy day, the peaceful night,
Unfelt, uncounted, glided by;
His frame was firm, his powers were bright,
Tho’ now his eightieth year was nigh.
Then with no throbbing fiery pain,
No cold gradations of decay,
Death broke at once the vital chain,
And free’d his soul the nearest way.
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