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TO

THE MEMORY OF

JOHN SHEFFIELD

DUKE of BUCKINGHAM.

THESE

HIS MORE LASTING REMAINS

(THE MONUMENT OF HIS MIND,

AND MORE PERFECT IMAGE OF HIMSELF } are here collected by the direction of CATHARINE his DUCHESSE:

defirous that his Ashes may be honoured, And his Fame & Merit committed

to the test of

TIME, TRUTH & POSTERITY.

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THE

TEMPLE

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OF DEA T H.

In Imitation of the French.

N thofe cold climates, where the Sun ap-
pears
Unwillingly, and hides his face in tears,
A difmal vale lies in a defart ifle,
On which indulgent Heav'n did never smile.
There a thick grove of aged cypress trees,
Which none without an awful horror fees,
Into its wither'd arms, depriv'd of leaves,
Whole flocks of ill-prefaging birds receives.
Poisons are all the plants that foil will bear,
And winter is the only feason there.
Millions of graves o'erfpread the spacious field,
And springs of blood a thousand rivers yield;
Whofe ftreams, opprefs'd with carcaffes and bones,
Inftead of gentle murmurs, pour forth groans.
Within this vale a famous Temple ftands,
Old as the World it felf, which it commands:
VOL. I.

A

ΤΟ

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