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From Heav'nly Joys, that Interval afford
To thy fad Children, and thy mourning Lord.
See how they grieve, miitaken in their Love,
And shed a Beam of Comfort from above ;
Give 'em, as much as mortal Eyes can bear,
A transient View of thy full Glories there ;
That they with mod'rate Sorrow may sustain
And mollify their Losses in thy Gain.
Or else divide the Grief ; for such thou wert,
That sou'd not all Relations bear a part,
It were enough to break a single Heart.

Let this suffice: Nor thou, great Saint, refuse
This humble Tribute of no vulgar Muse :
Who, not by Cares, or Wants, or Age deprest,
Stems a wild Deluge with a dauntless Breast ;
And dares to sing thy Praises in a Clime
Where Vice triumphs, and Virtue is a Crime ;
Where e’en to draw the Picture of thy Mind,
ls Satire on the most of Human Kind :
Take it, while yet ’ris Praise ; before my Rage,
Unsafely just, break loose on this bad Age ;
So bad, that thou thy self hadít no Defence
From Vice, but barely by departing hence.

Be what, and where thou art : To wish thy place,
Were, in the best, Presumption more than Grace.
Thy Relicks, (such thy Works of Mercy are)
Have, in this Poem, been my holy care.
As Earth thy Body keeps, thy Soul the Sky,
So shall this Verse preserve thy Memory ;
For thou shalt make it live, because it fings of thee.

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To the Pious Memory of the Accomplish'd

Young Lady, Mrs. ANNE KILLIGREW, Excellent in the two Sister. Arts of Poesy and Painting. An O D e.

T

I.
"Hou youngest Virgin-Daughter of the Skies,

Made in the last Promotion of the Bleft ;
Whose Palms, new pluck'd from Paradise,
In spreading Branches more sublimely rise,
Rich with Immortal Green above the rest :
Whether, adopted to some Neighb'ring Star,
Thou roll'st above us, in thy wand'ring Race,

Or, in Procession fix'd and regular,
Moy'd with the Heav'n's Majestick Pace;

Or, callid to more Superior Bliss,
Thou tread'st, with Seraphims, the vast Abyss:
Whatever happy Region is thy Place,
Cease thy Celestial Song a little space ;
Thou wilt have time enough for Hymns Divine,

Since Heav'n's Eternal Year is thine.
Hear then a Mortal Muse thy Praise rehearse,

In no ignoble Verse ;
But such as thy own Voice did practise here,
When thy first Fruits of Poesy were giv'n ;
To make thy self a welcome Inmate there :

While yet a young Probationer,
And Candidate of Heav'n.

II.
If by Traduction came thy Mind,

Our Wonder is the less to find
A Soul so charming from a Stock so good ;
Thy Father was transfus'd into thy Blood :

So

So wert thou born into a tuneful strain,
An early, rich, and inexhausted Vein.

But if thy Pre existing Soul

Was form’d, at first, with Myriads more,
It did through all the Mighty Poets roll,

Who Greek or Latin Laurels wore,
And was that Sappho last, which once it was before.

If so, then cease thy flight, O Heav'n-born Mind!
Thou hast no Dross to purge from thy rich Ore:
Nor can thy Soul a fairer Mansion find,

Than was the beauteous Frame the left behind :
Return to fill or mend the Choir of thy Celestial kind,

III.
May we presume to say, that, at thy Birth,
New joy was sprung in Heav'n, as well as here on Earth.

For sure the milder Planets did combine
On thy Auspicious Horoscope to shine,
And e'en the most Malicious were in Trine.
Thy Brother-Angels at thy Birth

Strung each his Lyre, and tun'd it high,

That all the People of the Sky
Might know a Poetess was born on Earth.

And then, if ever, Mortal Ears
Had heard the Musick of the Spheres.
And if no clust'ring Swarm of Bees
On thy sweet Mouth distilld their golden Dew,
'Twas that such vulgar Miracles

Heav'n had not Leisure to renew :
For all thy Bleft Fraternity of Love
Solemniz'd there thy Birth, and kept thy Holy-day above.

IV.
O Gracious God! How far have we
Prophan'd thy Heay'nly Gift of Poely?

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Made

Made proftitute and profigate the Muse,
Debas'd to each obscene and impious Use,
Whose Harmony was first ordain'd Above
For Tongues of Angels, and for Hymns of Love ?
O wretched We! why were we hurry'd down

This lubrique and adult'rate Age, (Nay added fat Pollutions of our

own)
Tincrease the steaming Ordures of the Stage?
What can we say t'excuse our Second Fall ?
Let this thy Veltal, Heav'n, atone for all :
Her Arethufian Stream remains unsoild,
Unmix'd with Foreign Filth, and undefild ;
Her Wit was more than Man, her Innocence a Child.

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Art she had none, yet wanted none ;
For Nature did that Want fupply :
So rich in Treasures of her own,

She might our boasted Stores defy :
Such noble Vigour did her Verse adorn,
That it seem'd borrow'd, where 'twas only born.
Her Morals too were in her Bosom bred,

By great Examples daily fed,
What in the best of Books, her Father's Life, she read.
And to be read herself the need not fear;
Each Teft, and ev'ry Light, her Muse will bear,
Though Epictetus with his Lamp were there.
E'en Love (for Love sometimes her Muse expref)
Was but a Lambent flame which play'd about her Breaft:
Light as the Vapours of a Morning Dream,
So cold herself, whilft she such Warmth expreft,
'Twas Cupid bathing in Diana's Stream.

VI. Born to the Spacious Empire of the Nine, One wou'd have thought, she shou'd have been content

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To manage well that mighty Government ;
But what can young ambitious Souls confine ?

To the next Realm fhe stretch'd her Sway,

For Painture near adjoining lay,
A plenteous Province, and alluring Prey.

A Chamber of Dependences was fram'd,
(As Conquerors will never want Pretence,

When arm’d, to justify th' Offence)
And the whole Fiet, in right of Poetry, The claim'd.
The Country open lay without Defence :
For Poets frequent Inrodes there had made,

And perfe&tly cou'd represent

The Shape, the Face, with ev'ry Lineament ; And all the largeDomains which the Dumb Sifter sway'd.

All bow'd beneath her Government,

Receiv'd in Triumph wherefoe'er she went.
Her Pencil drew, whate'er her Soul defign'd, [Mind.
And oft the happy Draught surpass’d the Image in her

The Sylvan Scenes of Herds and Flocks,
And fruitful Plains and barren Rocks,
Of shallow Brooks that flow'd so clear,
The bottom did the top appear ;
Of deeper too and ampler Floods,
Which, as in Mirrours, few'd the Woods;
Of lofty Trees, with Sacred Shades,
And Perspectives of pleasant Glades,
Where Nymphs of brightest Form appear,
And shaggy Satyrs standing near,
Which them at once admire and fear.
The Ruins too of some Majestick Piece,
Boasting the Pow'r of ancient Rome or Greece,
Whose Statues, Freezes, Columns.broken lie,
And, tho' defac'd, the Wonder of the Eye ;

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