[Works of John Stowell + note by R.J.Moore]


Now weave the Cypress wreath, Celestial Nine !
Now all in eloquence of grief combine,
To tell the world its loss. For you -alone,
In strains accordant, can that loss bemoan.

The sprightly wit and captivating sense,
That Envy, e’en denied malign Pretence,
The Hand whose touch cou’d animate The clod,
Or lift, in solemn stroke, the soul to God
The voice seraphic I ever heard to raise,
Exstatic transport, in melodious lays!
The sympathetic breast, whose plaintive strain
Could melt afflictions—to Compassion’ s pain,
All, all were her’ s !—and many a beauty more,
Which you alone, with justice, may deplore.
F-or me, the humble wish is all remains,
Ye magic soothers of distraction’s pains!
That by your aid, she in her death may live,
While e’en one blessing Fame may have to give !
And through persuasion of her present bliss
Her weeping friends the cross of Fate my kiss!


October 8th, 1793.

A W Moore, in Nessy Heywood quotes the following also by John Stowell

Lines, occasioned by reading an account of the death of Miss Nessy Heywood in the last paper

How soon ! sweet maid, how like a fleeting dream,
Thy winning graces, all thy virtues seem I
How soon, arrested in thy early bloom,
Has Fate decreed thee to the joyless tomb I
Nor Beauty, Genius, nor the Muses’ care,
Nor ought could move the Tyrant Death to spare.
Ah I could their pow’r revoke the stern decree,
The fatal shaft had past unfelt by thee;
But vain thy wit, thy sentiment refin’d,
Thy charms external, and accomplish’d mind;
Thy artless smiles that seiz’d the willing heart,
Thy converse, that cou’d pure delight impart;
The melting music of thy skilful tongue,
While judgment listen’d, ravish’d with thy song;
Not all the gifts that art and nature gave,
Could save thee, lovely Nessy, from the grave !

Too early lost! from friendship’s bosom torn,
O might I tune thy lyre, and sweetly mourn
In strains like thine, when beauteous Margaret’s fate
Oppress’d thy friendly heart with sorrow’s weight;
Then shou’d my numbers flow, and laurels bloom
In endless spring around fair Nessy’s tomb !


Isle of Man, 1793.

 John Stowell

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