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On the Death of a very Young Gentleman,
E who cou'd view the Book of Destiny,
And read whatever there was writ of thee,
O Charming Youth, in the firft op'ning Page,
So many Graces in fo green an Age,
Such Wit, such Modesty, such Strength of Mind,
A Soul at once fo manly, and so kind ;
Wou'd wonder, when he turn'd the Volume o'er,
And after some few Leaves shou'd find no more,
Nought but a Blank remain, a dead void Space,
A step of Life that promis'd such a Race.
We must not, dare not think that Heav'n began.
A Child, and cou'd not finish him a Man ;
Reflecting what a mighty Store was laid
Of rich Materials, and a Model made :
The Cost already furnish'd ; so bestow'd,
As more was never to one Soul allow'd :
Yet after this Profusion spent in vain,
Nothing but mould'ring Afhes to remain.
I guess not, left I split upon the Shelf,
Yet durft I guess, Heav'n kept it for himself ;
And giving us the Use, did soon recal,
Ere we cou'd spare, the mighty Principal.
Thus then he disappear'd, was rarify'd ;
For 'tis improper Speech to say he dy'd :
He was exhald ; His great Creator drew
His Spirit, as the Sun the Morning Dew.
'Tis Sin produces Death ; and he had none
But the Taint Adam left on ev'ry Son.
He added not, he was so pure, so good,
'Twas but th' Original Forfeit of his Blood :
And that so little, that the River ran
More clear than the corrupted Fount began.
Nothing remain’d of the first muddy Clay ;
The length of Course had wash'd it in the way :
So deep, and yet so clear, we might behold
The Gravel bottom, and that bottom Gold.
As such we lov'd, admir'd, almost ador'd, .
Gave all the Tribute Mortals cou'd afford.
Perhaps we gave fo much, the Pow'rs above
Grew angry at our superstitious Love :
For when we more than Human Homage pay,
The charming Cause is juftly snatch'd away.
Thus was the Crime not his, but ours alone :
And yet we murmur that he went so soon ;
Though Miracles are short and rarely shown.
Hear then, ye mournful Parents, and divide
That Love in many, which in one was ty'd,
That individual Blessing is no more,
But multiply'd in your remaining Store.
The Flame's dispers'd, but does not all expire ;
The Sparkles blaze, though not the Globe of Fire.
Love him by Parts, in all your num'rous Race,
And from thofe Parts form one collected Grace ;
Then, when you have refin'd to that Degree,
Imagine all in one, and think that one is he.
Upon the Death of the Earl of DUNDEE.
H last and best of Scots ! who didit maintain
O'The accountty's Freedom
from a foreign Reign ;
New People fill the Land now thou art gone,
New Gods the Temples, and new Kings the Throne.
Scotland and Thee did each in other live ;
Nor wou'dft thou her, nor cou'd she thee survive.
Farewel, who dying didit support the State,
And cou'dft not fall but with thy Country's Fate.
Upon Young Mr. ROGERS of
F gentle Blood, his parents only Treasure,
Their lasting Sorrow, and their vanilb'd Pleasure,
Adorn'd with Features, Virtues, Wit and Grace,
A large Provision for so fhort a Race ;
More mod'rate Gifts might have prolong'd his Date,
Too early fitted for a better State ;
But, knowing Heav'n his Home, to fhun Delay,
He leap'd o'er Age, and took the Shortest way.
To the Memory of Mr. OLDHAM.
Whom I began to think, and call my own :
For sure our Souls were near allied, and thine
Cast in the same poetic Mould with mine.
One common Note on either Lyre did strike,
And Knaves and Fools we both abhorr'd alike.
To the fame Goal did both our Studies drive ;
The last set out, the sooneft did arrive.
Thus Nisus fell upon the flipp'ry place,
Whilft his young Friend perform'd, and won the Race.
O early ripe ! to thy abundant Store
What cou'd advancing Age have added more?
It might (what Nature never gives the Young)
Have taught the Smoothness of thy native Tongue.
But Satire needs not those, and Wit will shine
Thro' the harsh Cadence of a rugged Line.
A noble Error, and but seldom made,
When Poets are by too much Force betray'd.
Thy gen'rous Fruits, tho'gather'd ere their Prime,
Still lewd a Quickness; and maturing Time
But mellows what we write, to the dull sweets of Rhime.
Once more, hail, and farewel ; farewel, thou young,
But ah too short, Marcellus of our Tongue !
Thy Brows with Ivy, and with Laurels bound;
But Fate and Gloomy Night encompass thee around,
On the Death of Mr. PURCELL.
Set to Music by Dr. B Low.
Ark how the Lark and Linnet fing ;
With Rival Notes
They strain their warbling Throats,
To welcome in the Spring,
But in the Close of Night,
When Philomel begins her heav'nly Lay,
They cease their mutual Spite,
Drink in her Musick with Delight,
And liftning filently obey.
So ceas'd the Rival Crew, when Purcell came;
They sung no more, or only sung his Fame :
Struck dumb, they all admir'd the Godlike Man :
The Godlike Man,
Alas ! too soon retired,
As he too late began.
We beg not Hell our Orpheus to restore :
Had he been there,
Their Sovereign's Fear
Had sent him back before.
The Power of Harmony too well they knew :
He long ere this had tun'd their jarring Sphere,
And left no Hell below.
The Heav'nly Choir, who heard his Notes from high,
Let down the Scale of Mafick from the Sky:
They handed him along, And all the way he taught, and all the way they sung. Ye breth'ren of the Lyre, and tuneful Voice, Lament his Lot; but at your own rejoice : Now live secure, and linger out your Days ; The Gods are pleas'd alone with Purcell's Lays,
Nor know to mend their Choice.
EPITAPH on the Lady WHITMORE.
Air, kind, and true, a Treasure each alone,
A Wife, a Mistrefs, and a Friend in one,
Rest in this Tomb, rais'd at thy Husband's cost,
Here sadly summing, what he had, and loft.
Come, Virgins, ere in equal Bands ye join,
Come first, and offer at her sacred Shrine ;
Pray but for half the Virtues of this Wife,
Compound for all the rest, with longer Life ;
And with your Vows, like hers, may be return'd,
So lov'd when living, and when dead so mourn’d.