HOBBS to this happy Pitch arriv'd at last, Might have look'd down with Pride on Dangers paft. Men toil for Fame, which no Man lives to find; Written over a GATE. H ERE lives a Man, who by relation For which the Learned and the Wife, But that, alas, it was Decreed! The 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 Sense. So Moses once, and JOSHUA, Beftrid poor ISRAEL: Like Rev'rence pay to these ! for who Could ride a Nation as they do, Without a Miracle? ODE ODE on the Death of Henry Purcell. Set to Mufick. G OOD Angels fnatch'd him eagerly on high; Sky, Teaching his new-fledg'd Soul to fly While we, alas! lamenting lie, He went mufing all along, Composing 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, No lefs for Mufick, than for Poetry! Genius fublime in either Art: Crown'd with Applaufe furpaffing all Defeft! Needs must he wish that PURCELL only might Have liv'd to set what he vouchfaf'd to write; With the frail Body never dies; But with the Soul ascends the Skies 'Tis fure no little Proof we have And in our Fame below ftill bears a Share Why is the future elfe fo much our Care Ey'n in our latest Moment of Despair? And Death defpis'd for Fame by all the wife and brave? Oh, all ye bleft harmonious Quire! Who Pow'rAlmighty only love,and only that admire! Look |