The MIRACLE, 1707.

M

ERIT they hate, and Wit they flight,

They neither act, nor reason right,

And nothing mind but Pence:

Unskilful they Victorious are,

Conduct a Kingdom without Care,

A Council without Senfe.

So MOSES Once, and JOSHUA,

And that Virago DEBORA,

Beftrid poor ISRAEL:

Like Rev'rence pay to these ! for who

Could ride a Nation as they do,

Without a Miracle?

ODE

L

ODE on the Death of Henry Purcell. Set to Mufick.

G

OOD Angels fnatch'd him eagerly on high;
Joyful they flew, finging and foaring thro' the

Sky,

Teaching his new-fledg'd Soul to fly 3

While we, alas! lamenting lie,

He went mufing all along,

Compofing new their heav'nly Song,

A while his skilful Notes loud Hallelujah's drown'd;

But foon they ceas'd their own, to catch his pleafing

Sound.

DAVID himself improv'd the Harmony,
DAVID in facred Story so renown'd

No lefs for Mufick, than for Poetry!

Genius fublime in either Art:

Crown'd with Applaufe furpafling all Defert!

A Man juft after God's own Heart!

If human Cares are lawful to the Bleft,
Already fettled in eternal Reft;

Needs muft he wish that PURCELL only might
Have liv'd to fet what he vouchfaf'd to write;
For, fure, the noble Thirst of Fame
With the frail Body never dies;

But with the Soul afcends the Skies
From whence at first it came.

"Tis fure no little Proof we have
That part of us furvives the Grave,

And in our Fame below ftill bears a Share :

Why is the future else so much our Carc,

Ev'n in our latest Moment of Despair?

And Death defpis'd for Fame by all the wife and brave?

Oh, all ye bleft harmonious Quirc!

Who Pow'rAlmighty only love,and only that admire!

Look

Look down with Pity from your peaceful Bow'r

On this fad Isle perplex'd,

And ever, ever vex'd

With anxious Care of Trifles, Wealth, and Pow'r.

In our rough Minds due Reverence infuse

For fweet melodious Sounds, and each harmonious

Mufe.

Mufick exalts Man's Nature, and inspires

High elevated Thoughts, or gentle, kind Defires,

On

On the Lofs of an only Son, Robert Marquis of Normanby.

UR Mornings gay, and shining;

The Days our Joys declare;

At Evening no repining ;

And Nights all void of Care.

A fond transported Mother
Was often heard to cry,
Oh, where is fuch another
So blefs'd by Heav'n as I?

A Child at first was wanting;

Now fuch a Son is fent,

As Parents most lamenting

In him would find content.

A