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What Nature, Art, bold Fiction e'er durst frame,
Her forming Hand gave Feature to the Name.

So strange a Concourse ne'er was seen before,
But when the peopl'd Ark the whole Creation bore.

The Scene then chang'd, with bold erected Look
Our Martial King the fight with Rev'rence strook :
For not content t'express his outward Part,
Her Hand callid out the Image of his Heart :
His warlike Mind, his Soul devoid of Fear,
His High-defigning Thoughts were figur'd there,
As when, by Magick, Ghosts are made appear.

Our Phenix Queen was pourtray'd too so bright,
Beauty alone eou'd Beauty take so right:
Her Dress, her Shape, her matchless Grace,
Were all observ’d, as well as Heav’nly Face.
With such a Peerless Majesty she stands,
As in that Day she took the Crown from sacred Hands :
Before a Train of Heroines was feen,
In Beauty foremost, as in Rank, the Queen.

Thus nothing to her Genius was deny'd,
But like a Ball of Fire the further thrown,

Still with a greater Blaze she shone,
And her bright Soul broke out on ev'ry side.
What next she had design'd, Heaven only knows :
To such Immod'rate Growth her Conquest rose,
That Fate alone its Progress cou'd oppose.

Now all those Charms, that blooming Grace,
The well-proportion'd Shape, and beauteous Face,
Shall never more be seen by Mortal Eyes ;
In Earth the much-lamented Virgin lies.

Not Wit, nor Piety cou'd Fate prevent;
Nor was the cruel Destiny content



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To finish all the Murder at a blow,

To sweep at once her Life, and Beauty too ; But, like a harden'd Felon, took a pride

To work more mischievously flow,

And plunder'd first, and then destroy'd.
O double Sacrilege on things Divine,
To rob the Relick, and deface the Shrine !

But thus Orinda dy'd :
Heaven, by the same Disease, did both translate ;
As equal were their Souls, fo equal was their Fate.

Mean-time her Warlike Brother on the Seas

His waving Streamers to the Winds displays,
And Vows for his Return, with vain Devotion, pays.

Ah Generous Youth, that With forbear,

The Winds too soon will waft thee here!
Slack all thy Sails, and fear to come,
Alas, thou know'st not, thou art wreck'd at home!
No more shalt thou behold thy Sister's Face,
Thou hast already had her last Embrace.
But look aloft, and if thou ken'st from far
Among the Pleiads a New-kindled Star,
If any Sparkles, than the rest more bright
'Tis the that shines in that propitious Light

When in mid-Air the Golden Trump shall sound,

To raise the Nations under Ground;

When, in the Valley of Jehonhaphat,
The Judging God shall close the Book of Fate;

And there the last Asizes keep,
For those who Wake, and those who Sleep :
When rattling Bones together fly,
From the four Corners of the Sky;


When Sinews o'er the Skeletons are spread,
Those cloth'd with Flesh, and Life inspires the Dead;
The Sacred Poets first shall hear the Sound,

And foremost from the Tomb ihall bound,
For they are cover'd with the lightest Ground;
And straight, with in-born Vigour, on the Wing,
Like mounting Larks, to the New Morning sing.
There Thou, sweet Saint, before the Quire Mall go,
As Harbinger of Heaven, the Way to show,
The Way which thou so well hast learnt below.


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On the Death of A MYN TAS:

A Pastoral ELEGY.
Was on a Joyless and a Gloomy Morn,

Wet was the Grass, and hung with Pearls the
When Damon, who design'd to pass the Day [Thorn ;
With Hounds and Horns, and chase the flying Prey,
Rose early from his Bed; but soon he found
The Welkin pitch'd with fullen Clouds around,
An Eastern Wind, and Dew upon the Ground.
Thus while he stood, and fighing did survey
The Fields, and curft th' ill Omens of the Day,
He saw Menalcas come with heavy pace ;
Wet were his Eyes, and chearless was his Face :
He wrung

his Hands, distracted with his Care,
And sent his Voice before him from afar.
Return, he cry'd, return, unhappy Swain,
The spungy Clouds are filld with gath'ring Rain :
The Promise of the Day not only cross’d,
But e'en the Spring, the Spring it self is loft.
Amyntas-Oh! -- he cou'd not speak the reft,
Nor needed, for prefaging Damon guess'd.


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Equal with Heav'n young Damon lov'd the Boy,
The boast of Nature, both his Parents Joy.
His graceful Form revolving in his Mind;
So great a Genius, and a Soul so kind,
Gave fad assurance that his Fears were true ;
Too well the Envy of the Gods he knew :
For when their Gifts too lavishly are plac'd,
Soon they repent, and will not make them last.
For sure it was too bountiful a Dole,
The Mother's Features, and the Father's Soul.
Then thus he cry'd : The Morn bespoke the News:
The Morning did her chearful Light diffuse;
Bat see how suddenly she chang'd her Face, [grace ;
And brought on Clouds and Rain, the Day's Dif-
Just such, Amyntas, was thy promis'd Race.
What Charms adorn'd thy Youth, where Nature smil'd,
And more than Man was giv'n us in a Child !
His Infancy was ripe : a Soul fublime
In Years fo tender that prevented time:
Heav'n gave him all at once ; then snatch'daway,
Ere Mortals all his Beauties cou'd survey :
Just like the Flow'r that buds and withers in a Day.

The Mother, Lovely, tho' with Grief oppreft,
Reclin'd his dying Head upon her Breaft.
The mournful Family stood all around ;
One Groan was heard, one universal Sound :

All were in Floods of Tears and endless Sorrow
So dire a Sadness fat on ev'ry Look, [drown'd.
E'en Death repented he had giv'n the Stroke.
He griev'd his fatal Work had been ordain'd,
But promis'd length of Life to those who yet remain'd.
The Mother's and her Eldest Daughter's Grace,
It seems, had brib'd him to prolong their space.




The Father bore it with undaunted Soul,
Like one who durst his Destiny controul :
Yet with becoming Grief he bore his part,
Resign'd his Son, but not refign'd his Heart.
Patient as job; and may be live to see,
Like him, a new increafing Family!

D A M O N.
Such is my Wish, and such my Prophesy.
For yet, my Friend, the Beauteous Mould remains ;
Long may she exercise her fruitful Pains !
But, ah ! with better hap, and bring a Race
More lasting, and endu'd with equal Grace !
Equal she may, but farther none can go :
For he was all that was exact below.

Damon, behold yon breaking Purple Cloud ;
Hear'st thou not Hymns and Songs Divinely loud ?
There mounts Amyntas; the young Cherubs play
About their Godlike Mate, and Sing him on his way.
He cleaves the liquid Air, behold he flies,
And every Moment gains upon the Skies.
The new come Guest admires th' Ætherial State,
The Saphir Portal, and the Golden Gate ;
And now admitted in the shining Throng,
He shows the Passport which he brought along.
His Passport is his Innocence and Grace,
Well known to all the Natives of the Place.
Now Sing, ye joyful Angels, and admire
Your Brother's Voice that comes to mend your Quire :
Sing you, while endless Tears our Eyes bestow ;
For like Amyntas none is left below.

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