Poem of the Week – On the Death of Dr Robert Levet by Samuel Johnson (1783)
Today, Samuel Johnson is internationally recognised as the cantankerous compiler of the most influential dictionary in the English language. However, his inimitable genius was in almost every literary medium available to his time. He wrote critiques, plays, biographies, short stories, political speeches, eulogies as well as many fine but forgotten poems.
Though hardly one of the great poets to write in English, his extensive reading and resulting technical ability allowed him to author several verses worthy of remembrance and citation.
This week’s poem was written in 1782 to commemorate Johnson’s long-term physician and lodger, Dr Robert Levet. Plagued by protracted bouts of loneliness as well as a myriad of illnesses, the irascible lexicographer filled his small home with unlikely characters.
After the pair became acquainted in 1746, Levet was invited to join Johnson’s expanding household. This was not only due to his medical background but because, as Boswell records, “His [Dr Levet’s] character was rendered valuable by repeated proof of honesty, tenderness, and gratitude.”
In this emotive tribute to a departed friend, a broken-hearted Johnson eloquently bids farewell to Dr Levet by praising the virtues that initially endeared them to each other.
We hope you enjoy this week’s poem as much as we did.
On the Death of Dr Robert Levet by Samuel Johnson (1783)
Condemned 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 every friendless name the friend.
Yet still he fills Affection’s eye,
Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind;
Nor, lettered Arrogance, deny
Thy praise to merit unrefined.
When fainting Nature called for aid,
And hovering Death prepared the blow,
His vigorous remedy displayed
The power of art without the show.
In Misery’s darkest cavern known,
His useful care was ever nigh,
Where hopeless Anguish poured his groan,
And lonely Want retired to die.
No summons mocked by chill delay,
No petty gain disdained by pride,
The modest wants of every day
The toil of every day supplied.
His virtues walked their narrow round,
Nor made a pause, nor left a void;
And sure the 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,
Though 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 freed his soul the nearest way.