M

The MIRACLE, 1707.

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 fenfe.

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?

P

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
Teaching his new-fledg'd foul to fly;
While we, alas! lamenting lie.

He went mufing all along,

Compofing new their heav'nly fong.

[sky,

A while his skilful notes loud hallelujahs drown'd;
But foon they ceas'd their own, to catch his pleasing
DAVID himself improv'd the harmony, [found.
DAVID in facred story so renown'd
No lefs for mufick, than for poetry!
Genius fublime in either art!
Crown'd with applaufe furpaffing all defert!

A man just after God's own heart!

If human cares are lawful to the blest,
Already fettled in eternal reft;

Needs must 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 foul 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 still bears a fhare:
Why is the future else fo much our care,
Ev'n in our latest moment of despair?

And death despis'd for fame by all the wife and brave? Oh, all ye bleft harmonious choir!

Who pow'r Almighty only love, and only that admire! Look down with pity from your peaceful bow'r, On this fad ifle perplex'd,

And ever, ever vex'd

With anxious care of trifles, wealth, and pow'r. In our rough minds due reverence infufe [mufe. For fweet melodious founds, and each harmonious Mufick exalts man's nature, and infpires

High elevated thoughts, or gentle, kind desires.

F 2

On the Lofs of an only Son,

ROBERT Marquis of NORMANBY.

Ο

UR morning's gay and shining;
The days our joys declare;

At ev'ning no repining;
And night's 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 fon is fent,
As parents most lamenting

In him would find content.

A child, of whom kind Heaven
Not only hope bestows,
But has already given

Him all our hopes propose.

The happy fire's poffeffing
His fhare in fuch a boy,
Adds still a greater blessing
To all my other joy.

But ah! this fhiny weather
Became too hot to last;
Black clouds began to gather,
And all the sky o'ercast.

So fierce a fever rages,

We all lie drown'd in tears; And difmal fad prefages

Come thund'ring in our ears.

The doubts that made us languish, Did worfe, far worse than kill: Yet, oh, with all their anguish, Would we had doubted still!

By why fo much digreffion,
This fatal lofs to fhow?
Alas, there's no expreffion
Can tell a parent's woe!