REMAINS OF Mr. John Oldham IN VERSE and PROSE.  
LONDON: Printed for Jo. Hindmarsh, at the Golden Ball over against the Royal Exchange in Cornhill. 1687.   

ADVERTISEMENT.  
THE Author of these following Poems being dead, the Publisher thought fit to acquaint the World, that the reason why he exposed them now in Print, was not so much for his own Interest (though a Bookseller that disclaims Interest for a pretence, will no more be believed now adays, than a thorough paced Fanatic, that pretends he makes a journey to New England purely for Conscience sake) but for securing the reputation of Mr. Oldham; which might otherwise have suffered from worse hands, and out of a desire he has to Print the last Remains of his friend since he had the good fortune to publish his first Pieces.  
He confesses that it is the greatest piece of injustice to publish the posthumous Works of Authors, especially such, that we may suppose they had brought to the File and sent out with more advantages into the World, had they not been prevented by untimely death; and therefore assures you he had never presumed to Print these following Miscellanies, had they not already been countenanced by men of unquestionable repute and esteem.  
He is not of the same persuasion with several others of his own profession, that never care how much they lessen the reputation of the Poet, if they can but enhance the value of the Book; that ransack the Studies of the deceased, and Print all that passed under the Author's hands, from Fifteen to Forty, and upwards: and (as the incomparable Mr. Cowley has expressed it) think a rude heap of ill placed Stones a better Monument than a neat Tomb of Marble.   

To the MEMORY of Mr. OLDHAM.  
FArewel, too little and too lately known,  
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 abhorred alike:  
To the same Goal did both our Studies drive,  
The last set out the soon did arrive.  
Thus Nisus fell upon the slippery place,  
While his young Friend performed and won the Race.  
O early ripe! to thy abundant store  
What could advancing Age have added more?  
It might (what Nature never gives the young)  
Have taught the numbers of thy native Tongue.  
But satire needs not those, and Wit will shine  
Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line.  
A noble Error, and but seldom made,  
When Poets are by too much force betrayed,  
Thy generous fruits, though gathered ere their prime  
Still showed a quickness; and maturing time  
But mellows what we writ to the dull sweets of Rhyme.  
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.  
John Dryden.   

Authori Epitaphium.  
HOC, ô Viator, marmore conditoe  
Charoe recumbunt Exuviae brevem  
Viventis (oh! sors dura) vitam,  
Praecoce coelum animâ petentis.  
Nec praepedita est Mens celeris diù,  
Quin Pustularum mille tumoribus  
Effloruit, portisque mille  
Praepes iter patefecit altum.  
Musarum Alumnus jàm fuit, artibus  
Instructus almis, quas, studio pio,  
Atque aure quàm fidâ repostas,  
Oxonii coluit Parentis.  
Hîc quadriennis proemia Filii  
Dignus recepi, Vellera candida,  
Collati Honoris signa, necnon  
Innocui simulacra cordis.  
Sed manè montis summa cacumina  
Ascendit ardens, Pierio jugo  
Insedit, atque errore multo  
Ipsum Helicona scatere vidit.  
Nunc pura veri Flumina perspicit,  
Nunc mira Mundi semina concipit,  
Pulchrasque primoevi figuras,  
In speculo species creante.  
At Tu, Viator, Numina poscito,  
 dissolutis reliquits, vaga  
Dùm mens remigret, detur— ah! sit  
Terra levis, placidusque somnus.   

On the Death of Mr. John Oldham, A Pindaric Pastoral Ode.  

Stanza I.  
UNdoubtedly 'tis thy peculiar Fate,  
Ah, miserable Astragon!  
Thou art condemned alone  
To bear the Burden of a wretched Life,  
Still in this howling Wilderness to roam,  
While all thy Bosom-friends unkindly go,  
And leave thee to lament them here below.  
Thy dear Alexis would not stay,  
Joy of thy Life, and Pleasure of thine Eyes,  
Dear Alexis went away  
With an invincible Surprise;  
Th' Angellike Youth early disliked this State,  
And cheerfully submitted to his Fate.  
Never did Soul of a Celestial Birth  
Inform a purer piece of Earth.  
O that 'twere not in vain  
To wish what's past might be retrieved again!  
Thy Dotage, thy Alexis, then  
Had answered all thy Vows and Prayers,  
And Crowned with pregnant Joys thy silver Hairs,  
Loved to this day among the living Sons of Men.   

II.  
And thou, my Friend, hast left me too,  
Menalcas! poor Menalcas! even thou,  
Of whom so loudly Fame has spoke  
In the Records of her immortal Book,  
Whose disregarded Worth Ages to come  
Shall wail with Indignation o'er thy Tomb.  
Worthy wert thou to live, as long as Vice  
Should need a satire, that the frantic Age  
Might tremble at the Lash of thy poetic Rage.  
Th' untutored World in after Times  
May live uncensured for their Crimes,  
Freed from the Dreads of thy reforming Pen,  
Turn to old Chaos once again.  
Of all th' instructive Bards, whose more than Theban Lyre.  
Can savage Souls with manly Thoughts inspire,  
Menalcas worthy was to live.  
Say, you his Fellow-Shepherds that survive,  
Tell me, you mournful Swains,  
Has my adored Menalcas left behind;  
In all these pensive Plains  
A gentler Shepherd with a braver mind:  
Which of you all did more Majestic Show,  
Or wore the Garland on a sweeter Brow?   

III.  
— But wayward Astragon resolves no more  
The Loss of his Menalcas to deplore:  
The place to which he wisely is withdrawn  
Is altogether blest;  
There no Clouds overwhelm his Breast,  
No Midnight Cares can break his Rest;  
For all is everlasting cheerful Dawn.  
The Poet's Bliss there shall he long possess,  
Perfect Ease and soft Recess;  
The treacherous World no more shall him deceive,  
Of Hope and Fortune he has taken Leave:  
And now in mighty Triumph does he reign,  
(His Head adorned with Beams of Light)  
O'er the unthinking Rabble's Spire,  
And the dull wealthy Fool's disdain.  
Thrice happy he that dies the Muse's Friend,  
He needs no Obelisque, no Pyramid  
His sacred Dust to hid;  
He needs not for his Memory to provide;  
For he might well foresee his Praise can never end.   
Thomas Flatman.   

In Memory of the Author.  

TAke this short summoned lose unfinished Verse  
Cold as thy Tomb, and sudden as thy Hearse;  
From my sick Thoughts thou canst no better crave,  
Who scarce drag Life, and envy thee thy Grave.  
Me Phoebus always faintly did inspire,  
And gave my narrow Breast more scanty Fire.  
My Hybla Muse through humble Meads sought Spoil,  
Collecting little Sweets with mighty Toil;  
Yet when some Friend's just Fame did Theme afford,  
Her Voice amongst the towering Swans was heard.  
In vain for such Attendance now I call,  
My Ink overflows with Spleen, my Blood with Gall;  
Yet, sweet Alexis, my Esteem of thee  
Was equal to thy Worth and Love for me.  
Death is thy Gain— that Thought affects me most,  
I care not what th' ill-natured World has lost.  
For Wit with thee expired, how shall I grieve?  
Who grudge th' ingrateful Age what thou didst leave,  
The Tribute of their Verse let others send,  
And mourn the Poet gone, I mourn the Friend.  
Enjoy thy Fate— thy Predecessors come,  
Cowley and Butler to conduct thee home.  
Who would not (Butler cries) like me engage  
New Worlds of Wit to serve a grateful Age?  
For such Rewards what Task will Authors shun?  
I pray, Sir, is my Monument begun?  
Enjoy thy Fate, thy Voice in Anthems raise;  
So well tuned here on Earth to our Apollo's Praise:  
Let me retire, while some sublimer Pen  
Performs for thee what thou hast done for Homer and for Ben.   
N.T.   

On the ensuing Poems of Mr. John Oldham, and the Death of his good Friend the ingenious Author.  

OBscure and cloudy did the day appear,  
As Heaven designed to blot it from the year;  
The Elements all seemed to disagree,  
At least, I'm sure, they were at strife in me:  
Possessed with Spleen, which Melancholy bred,  
When Rumour told me that my Friend was dead,  
That Oldham honoured for his early Worth,  
Was cropped, like a sweet Blossom from the Earth,  
Where late he grew, delighting every Eye  
In his rare Garden of Philosophy.  
The fatal Sound new Sorrows did infuse,  
And all my Griefs were doubled at the News:  
For we with mutual Arms of Friendship strove,  
Friendship the true and solid part of Love;  
And he so many Graces had in store,  
That Fame or Beauty could not bind me more.  
His Wit in his immortal Verse appears,  
Many his Virtues were, tho' few his Years;  
Which were so spent as if by Heaven contrived,  
To lash the Vices of the longer lived.  
None was more skilful, none more learned than he,  
A Poet in its sacred Quality:  
Inspired above, and could command each Passion,  
Had all the Wit without the Affectation.  
A Calm of Nature still possessed his Soul,  
No cankered Envy did his Breast control:  
Modest as Virgins that have never known  
The jilting Breeding of the nauseous Town;  
And easy as his Numbers that sublime  
His lofty Strains, and beautify his Rhyme,  
Till the Time's Ignominy inspired his Pen,  
And roused the drowsy satire from his Den;  
Then fluttering Fops were his Aversion still,  
And felt the Power of his Satiric Quill.  
The Spark whose Noise proclaims his empty Pate,  
That struts along the Mall with antic Gate;  
And all the Phyllis and the Chloris Fools  
Were damned by his invective Muse in Shoals.  
Who on the Age looked with impartial Eyes,  
And aimed not at the Person, but the Vice.  
To all true Wit he was a constant Friend,  
And as he well could judge, could well commend  
The mighty Homer he with Care perused,  
And that great Genius to the World infused;  
Immortal Virgil, and Lucretius too,  
And all the Seeds o'th' Soul his Reason knew:  
Like Ovid, could the Lady's Hearts assail,  
With Horace sing, and lash with Juvenal.  
Unskilled in nought that did with Learning dwell,  
But Pride to know he understood it well.  
Adieu thou modest Type of perfect Man;  
Ah, had not thy Perfections that began  
In Life's bright Morning been eclipsed so soon,  
We all had basked and wantoned in thy Noon;  
But Fate grew envious of thy growing Fame,  
And knowing Heaven from whence thy Genius came,  
Assigned thee by immutable Decree  
A glorious Crown of Immortality,  
Snatched thee from all thy mourning Friends below,  
Just as the Bays were planting on thy Brow.  
Thus worldly Merit has the World's Regard;  
But Poets in the next have their Reward;  
And Heaven in Oldham's Fortune seemed to show,  
No Recompense was good enough below:  
So to prevent the World's ingrateful Crimes,  
Enriched his Mind, and bid him die betimes.   
T. Durfey.   

On the Death of Mr. John Oldham.  

Hark! is it only my prophetic Fear,  
Or some Death's sad Alarm that I hear?  
By all my Doubts 'tis Oldham's fatal Knell;  
It rings aloud, eternally farewell:  
Farewell thou mighty Genius of our Isle,  
Whose forward Parts made all our Nation smile,  
In whom both Wit and Knowledge did conspire,  
And Nature gazed as if she did admire  
How such few years such Learning could acquire:  
Nay seemed concerned that we should hardly find  
So sharp a Pen, and so serene a Mind.  
Oh then lament; let each distracted Breast  
With universal Sorrow be possessed.  
Mourn, mourn, ye Muses, and your Songs give over;  
For now your loved Adonis is no more.  
He whom ye tutored from his Infant-years,  
Cold, pale and ghastly as the Grave appears:  
He whom ye bathed in your loved murmuring Stream,  
Your daily pleasure, and your mighty Theme  
Is now no more; the Youth, the Youth is dead,  
The mighty Soul of Poetry is fled;  
Fled ere his Worth or Merit was half known;  
No sooner seen, but in a Moment gone:  
Like to some tender Plant, which reared with Care,  
At length becomes most fragrant, and most fair;  
Long does it thrive, and long its Pride maintain,  
Esteemed secure from Thunder, Storm or Rain;  
Then comes a Blast, and all the Work is vain.  
But Oh! my Friend, must we no more rehearse  
Thy equal Numbers in thy pleasing Verse?  
In Love how soft, in satire how severe?  
In Passion moving, and in Rage austere!  
Virgil in Judgement, Ovid in Delight,  
An easy Thought with a Meonian Flight;  
Horace in Sweetness, Juvenal in Rage,  
And even Biblis must each Heart engage!  
Just in his Praises, and what most desire,  
Would flatter none for Greatness, Love or Hire;  
Humble, though courted, and what's rare to see,  
Of wondrous Worth, yet wondrous Modesty.  
So far from Ostentation he did seem,  
That he was meanest in his own Esteem.  
Alas, young man, why wert thou made to be  
At once our Glory and our Misery?  
Our Misery in losing thee is more  
Than could thy Life our Glory be before:  
For should a Soul celestial Joys possess,  
And strait be banished from that Happiness,  
Oh, where would be its Pleasure? where its Gain?  
The Bliss once tasted but augments the Pain:  
So having once so great a Prize in thee,  
How much the heavier must our Sorrows be?  
For if such Flights were in thy younger Days,  
What if thou'dst lived, O what had been thy Praise?  
Eternal Wreaths of neverdying Bays:  
But those are due already to thy Name,  
Which stands enroled in the Records of Fame;  
And though thy great Remains to Ashes turn,  
With lasting Praises we'll supply thy Urn,  
Which like Sepulchral Lamps shall ever burn.  
But hold! methinks, great Shade, I see thee rove  
Through the smooth Path of Plenty, Peace and Love;  
Where Ben. salutes the first, overjoyed to see  
The Youth that sung his Fame and Memory:  
Great Spencer next, with all the learned Train,  
Do greet thee in a Panegyric Strain:  
Adonis is the Joy of all the Plain.   
Tho. Andrews.   

DAMON, an ECLOGUE On the untimely Death of Mr. Oldham.  Corydon. Alexis. 
BEneath a dismal Yew the Shepherds sat,  
And talked of Damon's Muse and Damon's Fate:  
Their mutual Lamentations gave them Ease;  
For sometimes Melancholy itself does please:  
Like Philomela abandoned to distress,  
Yet even their Griefs in Music they express.  Cor. 
I'll sing no more since Verses want a Charm,  
The Muses could not their own Damon arm:  
At least I'll touch this useless Pipe no more,  
Unless, like Orpheus, I could Shades restore.  A. 
Rather, like Orpheus, celebrate your Friend,  
And with your Music Hell itself suspend:  
Tax Proserpina of Cruelty and Hate,  
And sing of Damon's Muse, and Damon's Fate.  C. 
When Damon sung, he sung with such a Grace,  
Lord, how the very London-brutes did gaze!  
Sharp was his satire, nor allayed with Gall;  
'Twas Rage, 'twas generous Indignation all.  A. 
Oh had he lived, and to Perfection grown,  
Not like Marcellus, only to be shown;  
He would have charmed their Sense a nobler way,  
Taught Virgins how to sigh, and Priests to pray.  C. 
Let Priests and Virgins then to him address,  
And in their Songs their Gratitude express,  
While we that know the Worth of easy Verse,  
Secure the Laurel to adorn his Hearse.  A. 
Codrus, you know, that sacred Badge does wear,  
And 'twere injurious not to leave it there;  
But since no Merit can strike Envy dumb,  
Do you with Baccar, guard and grace his Tomb.  C. 
While you (dear Swain) with unaffected Rhyme,  
Majestic, sad, and suited to the Time,  
His Name to future Ages consecrate,  
By praising of his Muse, and mourning of his Fate.  A. 
Alas, I never must pretend to this,  
My Pipe scarce knows a Tune but what is his:  
Let future Ages then for Damon's sake,  
From his own Works a just Idaea take.  
Yet then, but like Alcides he'll be shown,  
And from his meanest part his Size be known.  C. 
'Twill be your Duty then to set it down.  A. 
Once and but once (so Heaven and Fate ordain)  
I met the gentle Youth upon the Plain,  
Kindly, cries he, if You Alexis be,  
And though I know you not you must he be;  
Too long already we have Strangers been,  
This Day, at least, our Friendship must begin.  
Let Business, that perverse Intruder, wait,  
To be above it is poetical and great.  
Then with Assyrian Nard our Heads did shine,  
While rich Sabaean Spice exalts the Wine;  
Which to a just Degree our Spirits fired;  
But he was by a greater God inspired:  
Wit was the Theme, which he did well describe,  
With Modesty unusual to his Tribe.  
But as with ominous Doubts, and aching Heart,  
When Lovers after first Enjoyment part,  
Not half content; for this was but a Taste,  
And wondering how the Minutes flew so fast,  
They vow a Friendship that shall ever last.  
So we— but oh how much am I accursed!  
To think that this last Office is my first.   

Occasioned by the present Edition of the ensuing Poems, and the Death of the ingenious Author.  

Cursed be the day when first this Godly Isle  
Vile Books, and useless thinking did defile.  
In Greek and Latin-Bogs our Time we waste,  
When all is Pain and Weariness at best:  
Mountains of Whims and Doubts we travel over,  
While treacherous Fancy dances on before:  
Pleased with our Danger still we stumble on,  
Too late repent, and are too soon undone.  
Let Bodley now in its own ruins lie,  
By th' common Hangman burnt for Heresy.  
Avoid the nasty learned dust, 'twill breed  
More Plagues than ever Jakes or Dunghills did.  
The want of Dulness will the World undo,  
'Tis Learning makes us mad and Rebels too.  
Learning, a Jilt which while we do enjoy,  
Slily our Rest and Quiet steals away;  
That greedily the Blood of Youth receives,  
And nought but Blindness and a Dotage gives.  
Worse than the Pox, or scolding Woman fly  
The awkward Madness of Philosophy.  
That Bedlam Bess, Religion never more  
Fantastic, pie-balled, antic Dresses wore:  
Opinion, Pride, Moroseness gives a Fame;  
'Tis Folly, christened with a modish Name.  
Let dull Divinity no more delight;  
It spoils the Man, and makes an Hypocrite.  
The chief Professors to Preferment fly,  
By Cringe and Scrape, the basest Simony.  
The humble Clown will best the Gospel teach,  
And inspired ignorance sounder Doctrines preach.  
A way to Heaven mere Nature well does show,  
Which reasoning and Disputes can never know.  
Yet still proud Tyrant Sense in Pomp appears,  
And claims a Tribute of full threescore Years.  
Sewed in a Sack, with Darkness circled round,  
Each man must be with Snakes and Monkeys drowned.  
Laborious Folly, and compendious Art,  
To waste that Life whose longest Date's too short.  
Laborious Folly, to wind up with Pain  
What Death unravels soon, and renders vain.  
We blindly hurry on in Mystic ways,  
Nor wisely tread the Paths of solid Praise.  
There's nought deserves one precious drop of sweat,  
But Poetry, the noblest Gift of Fate,  
Which after Death does a more lasting Life beget.  
Not that which sudden, frantic Heats produce,  
Where Wine and Pride, not Heaven, shall raise the Muse.  
Not that small Stock which does Translators make;  
That Trade poor Bankrupt-Poetasters take:  
But such, when God his Fiat did express,  
And powerful Numbers wrought an Universe.  
With such great David tuned his charming Lyre,  
That even Saul and Madness could admire.  
With such Great Oldham bravely did excel,  
That David's Lamentation sung so well.  
Oldham! the Man that could with Judgement write,  
Our Oxford's Glory, and the World's Delight.  
Sometimes in boundless keenest satire bold,  
Sometimes as soft as those Love-tales he told.  
That Vice could praise, and Virtue too disgrace;  
The first Excess of Wit that e'er did please.  
Scarce Cowley such Pindaric soaring known,  
Yet by his Reader still was kept in view.  
His Fancy, like Jove's Eagle lived above,  
And bearing Thunder still would upward move.  
Oh noble Kingston! had thy lovely Guest  
With a large stock of Youth and Life been blest;  
Not all thy Greatness, or thy Virtue's store  
Had surer Comforts been, or pleased thee more.  
But Oh! the date is short of mighty Worth,  
And Angels never tarry long on Earth.  
His soul, the bright, the pure Etherial Flame  
To those loved Regions flew, from whence it came.  
And spite of what Mankind had long believed,  
My Creed says only Poets can be saved.  
That God has only for a number stayed,  
To stop the breach, which Rebel Angels made.  
For none their absence can so well supply;  
They are all o'er Scraphick Harmony.  
Then, and not that till then the World shall burn  
And its base Dross, Mankind their fortune mourn,  
While all to their old nothing quick return.  
The peevish Critic than shall be ashamed,  
And for his Sins of Vanity be damned.   
T. Wood Oxon, May the 26th. 1684.   

On the Death of Mr. Oldham, A PASTORAL.  
On the Remains of an old blasted Oak  
Unmindful of himself Menalcas leaned;  
He sought not now in heat the shades of Trees,  
But shunned the flowing Rivers pleasing bank.  
His Pipe and Hook lay scattered on the Grass:  
Nor fed his Sheep together on the Plain,  
Left to themselves they wandered out at large.  
In this Lamenting state Young Corydon  
(His Friend and Dear Companion of his Hour)  
Finding Menalcas, asks him thus the Cause.  Corydon. 
Thee have I sought in every shady Grove,  
By purling Streams, and in each private Place,  
Where we have used to sit and talk of Love.  
Why do I find thee leaning on an Oak,  
By Lightning blasted and by Thunder rend?  
What cursed Chance has turned thy cheerful Mind?  
And why wilt thou have woes unknown to me?  
But I would Comfort and not chide my Friend:  
Tell me thy Grief, and let me bear a Part.  Menalcas. 
Young Astrophel is dead, Dear Astrophel,  
He that could Tune so well his charming Pipe:  
To hear whose Lays Nymphs left their Crystal Spring,  
The Fawns and Dryads forsook the Woods,  
And hearing, all were ravished: Swiftest Streams  
withheld their Course to hear the Heavenly Sound,  
And murmured, when by following Waves pressed on,  
The following Waves forcing their Way to hear.  
Oft the Fierce wolf pursuing of the Lamb,  
Hungry and wildly certain of his Prey,  
Left the Pursuit rather than lose the Sound  
Of his alluring Pipe: The Harmless Lamb  
Forgot his Nature and forsook his Fear,  
Stood by the Wolf and listened to the Sound.  
He could command a general Peace and Nature would obey.  
This Youth, this Youth is dead, the same Disease,  
That carried sweet Orinda from the World,  
Seized upon Astrophel: Oh Let these Tears  
Be offered to the Memory of my Friend,  
And Let my Speech give way a while to Sighs.  Corydon. 
Weep on Menalcas, for his Fate requires  
The Tears of all Mankind: General the Loss,  
And General be the Grief, except by Fame  
I knew him not but surely this is he,  
Who Sung learned 
* Spencer and Johnson.  colin's, or great 
* Spencer and Johnson.  Aegon's Praise?  
Dead ere he lived, yet have new Life from him.  
Did he not mourn lamented 
* Rochester.  Bion's Death;  
In Verse equal to what Bion wrote?  Menalcas. 
Yes this was he (oh that I say he was)  
He that could sing the Shepherd's deeds so well,  
Whether to praise the Good he turned his Pen,  
Or lashed the egregious Folly of the Bad,  
In both he did excel.—  
His happy genius bid him take the Pen,  
And dictated more fast than he could write,  
Sometimes becoming Negligence adorned  
His Verse, and Nature showed they were her own,  
Yet Art he used, where Art could useful be,  
But sweated not to be correctly dull.  Corydon. 
Had Fate allowed his Life a longer thread,  
Adding Experience to that wondrous Fraught  
of Youthful Vigour, how would he have wrote!  Menalcas. 
We wish for Life, not thinking of its Cares,  
I mourn his Death, the loss of such a Friend:  
But for himself he died in the best Hour,  
And carried with him every man's Applause.  
Youth meets not with Detractions blotting hand,  
Nor suffers aught from Envy's cankered Mind.  
Had he known Age, he would have seen the World,  
Put on its ugliest but its truest Face:  
Malice had watched the Droppings of his Pen,  
And ignorant Youths, who would for Critics pass,  
Had thrown their scornful Jests upon his Vene,  
And censured what they did not understand.  
Such was not my Dear Astrophel: he's dead,  
And I shall quickly follow him, what's Death,  
But an eternal Sleep without a Dream?  
Wrapped in a lasting Darkness, and exempt  
From Hope and Fear, and every idle Passion.  Corydon. 
See thy Complaints have moved the pitying Skies,  
They mourn the Death of Astrophel in Tears.  
Thy Sheep returned from straying, round they gaze,  
And wonder at thy mourning: Drive them Home,  
And tempt thy troubled mind with easing Sleep.  
To Morrow cheerful Light may give thee Comfort.   

To the MEMORY of Mr. JOHN OLDHAM.  

BUT that 'tis dangerous for Man to be  
Too busy with Immutable Decree,  
I could, dear Friend, even blame thy cruel Doom,  
That lent so much, to be required so soon:  
The Flowers, in which the Meads are dressed so gay,  
Although they are short lived, they live a Day;  
Thou, in the Noon of Life wert snatched away:  
Though not before thy Verse had Wonders shown,  
And bravely made the Age to come thine own!  
The Company of Beauty, Wealth, and Wine,  
Were not so charming, not so sweet as thine;  
They quickly perish; yours was still the same,  
An Everlasting, but a Lambent Flame;  
Which something so resistless did impart,  
It still through every Ear, won every Heart:  
Unlike the Wretch that strives to get Esteem,  
Nay, thinks it fine and Janty to blaspheme,  
And can be witty on no other Theme:  
Ah Foolish men, (whom thou didst still despise)  
That must be wicked to be counted wise!  
But thy Converse was from this Error free;  
And yet, 'twas every thing true Wit can be:  
None had it, but, even with a Tear, does own,  
The Soul of dear Society is gone.  
But while we thus thy Native Sweetness sing,  
We ought not to forget thy Native Sting:  
Thy satire spared no Follies, nor no Crimes;  
satire! the best Reformer of the Times!  
How wide shoot they, that strive to blast thy Fame,  
By saying, that thy Verse was rough and lame?  
They would have satire their Compassion move,  
And writ so pliant, nicely, and so smooth,  
As if the Muse were in a Flux of Love:  
But who of Knaves, and Fops, and Fools would sing,  
Must Force, and Fire, and Indignation bring;  
For 'tis no satire, if it has no Sting:  
In short, who in that Field would Famous be,  
Must think, and write like Juvenal and Thee.  
Let others boast of all the Mighty Nine,  
To make their Labours with more Lustre shine;  
I never had no other Muse but Thee;  
Even thou wert all the Mighty Nine to me:  
'Twas thy dear Friendship did my Breast inspire,  
And warmed it first with a Poetic Fire;  
But 'tis a warmth that does with Thee expire:  
For when the Sun is set that guides the Day,  
The Traveller must stop, or lose his way.   
Robert Gould.   

CONTENTS.  

COunterpart to the satire against Virtue, Page 1  
Virg. Eclogue VIII. The Enchantment 13  
Upon the Marriage of the Prince of Orange with the Lady Mary 35  
An Ode for an Annversary of Music on Caecilia's Day 43  
To Madam L. E. upon her Recovery from a fit of Sickness 46  
On the Death of Mrs. Katherine Kingscourt, a Child of excellent Parts and Piety 55  
A Sunday-thought in Sickness 59  
To the Memory of Mr. Charles Morwent 71  
To the Memory of that worthy Gentleman Mr. Harman Atwood. 115    

COUNTERPART TO THE satire against VIRTUE. In Person of the Author.  

I.  
PArdon me, Virtue, whatsoe'er thou art  
(For sure thou of the Godhead art a part,  
And all that is of him must be  
The very Deity.)  
Pardon, if I in aught did thee blaspheme,  
Or injure thy pure Sacred Name:  
Accept unfeigned Repentance, Prayers and Vows,  
The best Atonement of my penitent humble Muse,  
The best that Heaven requires, or Mankind can produce.  
All my Attempts hereafter shall at thy Devotion be,  
Ready to consecrate my Ink and very Blood to thee.  
Forgive me, ye blessed Souls that dwell above,  
Where you by its reward the worth of Virtue prove  
Forgive (if you can do't) who know no Passion now but Love  
And you unhappy happy few,  
Who strive with Life, and Humane Miseries below  
Forgive me too,  
If I in aught disparaged them, or else discouraged you   

II.  
Blessed Virtue! whose Almighty Power  
Does to our fallen Race restore  
All that in Paradise we lost, and more,  
Lists us to Heaven, and makes us be  
The Heirs and Image of the Deity.  
Soft gentle Yoke! which none but resty Fools refuse,  
Which before freedom I would ever choose.  
Easie are all the Bonds that are imposed by thee;  
Easie as those of Lovers are,  
(If I with aught less pure may thee compare)  
Nor do they force, but only guide our Liberty:  
By such soft Ties are Spirits above confined;  
So gentle is the Chain which them to Good does bind.  
Sure Card, whereby this frail and tottering Bark we steer  
Through Life's tempestuous Ocean here;  
Through all the tossing Waves of Fear,  
And dangerous Rocks of black Despair.  
Safe in thy Conduct unconcerned we move,  
Secure from all the threatening Storms that blow,  
From all Attacks of Chance below,  
And reach the certain Haven of Felicity above.   

III.  
Best Mistress of our Souls! whose Charms and Beauties last,  
And are by very Age increased,  
By which all other Glories are defaced.  
thou'rt thy own Dowry, and a greater far  
Than All the Race of Womankind e'er brought,  
Tho' each of them like the first Wife were fraught,  
And half the Universe did for her Portion share.  
That tawdry Sex, which giddy senseless we  
Through Ignorance so vainly Deify,  
Are all but glorious Brutes when un-endowed with thee  
'Tis Vice alone, the truer Jilt, and worse.  
In whose Enjoyment tho' we find  
A flitting Pleasure, yet it leaves behind  
A Pain and Torture in the Mind,  
And claps the wounded Conscience with incurable Remorse,  
Or else betrays us to the great Trepans of Humane Kind.   

iv  
'Tis Vice, the greater Thraldom, harder Drudgery,  
Whereby deposing Reason from its gentle Sway,  
(That rightful Sovereign which we should obey)  
We undergo a various Tyranny,  
And to unnumbered servile Passions Homage pay.  
These with Egyptian Rigour us enslave,  
And govern with unlimited command;  
They make us endless Toil pursue,  
And still their doubled Tasks renew,  
To push on our too hasty Fate, and build our Grave,  
Or which is worse, to keep us from the Promised Land.  
Nor may we think our Freedom to retrieve,  
We struggle with our heavy Yoke in vain:  
In vain we strive to break that Chain,  
Unless a Miracle relieve;  
Unless th' Almighty Wand enlargement give,  
We never must expect Delivery,  
Till Death, the universal Writ of Ease, does set us free.   

V  
Some sordid Avarice in Vassalage confines,  
Like Roman Slaves condemned to th' Mines;  
These are in its harsh Bridewell lashed and punished,  
And with hard Labour scarce can earn their Bread.  
Others Ambition, that Imperious Dame,  
Exposes cruelly, like Gladiators, here  
Upon the World's Great Theatre.  
Through Dangers and through Blood they wade to Fame,  
To purchase grinning Honour and an empty Name,  
And some by Tyrant-Lust are Captive led,  
And with false Hopes of Pleasure fed;  
Till tired with Slavery to their own Desires,  
Life's o'er-charged Lamp goes out, and in a Snuff expires.   

VI  
Consider we the little Arts of Vice,  
The Stratagems and Artifice  
Whereby she does attract her Votaries:  
All those Allurements and those Charms  
Which pimp Transgressor's to her Arms,  
Are but foul Paint, and counterfeit Disguise,  
To palliate her own concealed Deformities,  
And for false empty Joys betray us to true solid Harms.  
In vain she would her Dowry boast,  
Which clogged with Legacies we never gain,  
But with unvaluable Cost;  
Which got we never can retain;  
But must the greatest part be lost,  
To the great Bubbles, Age or Chance, again.  
'Tis vastly overbalanced by the Jointure which we make,  
In which our lives, our souls, our All is set at stake.  
Like silly Indians, foolish we  
With a known Cheat, a losing Traffic hold,  
Whilst led by an ill-judging Eye,  
W' admire a trifling Pageantry,  
And merchandise our Jewels and our Gold,  
For worthless Glass and Beads, or an Exchange's Frippery.  
If we a while maintain th' expensive Trade,  
Such mighty Impost on the Cargoes laid,  
Such a vast Custom to be paid,  
We're forced at last like wretched Bankrupts to give out,  
Clapped up by Death, and in Eternal Durance shut.   

VII.  
What art thou, Fame, for which so eagerly we strive?  
What art thou but an empty Shade  
By the Reflection of our Actions made?  
Thou, unlike others, never follow'st us alive;  
But, like a Ghost, walkest only after we are dead.  
Posthumous Toy! vain after-Legacy!  
Which only ours can be,  
When we ourselves no more are we!  
Fickle as vain! who dost on vulgar Breath depend,  
Which we by dear Experience find  
More changeable, more veering than th' unconstant Wind.  
What art thou, Gold, that cheatest the Miser's eyes?  
Which he does so devoutly idolise;  
For whom he all his Rest and Ease does sacrifice.  
'Tis Use alone can all thy Value give,  
And he from that no Benefit can e'er receive.  
Cursed Mineral! near Neighbouring Hell begot,  
Which all th' Infection of thy damned Neighbourhood hast brought.  
Thou Bawd to Murders, Rapes & Treachery,  
And every greater Name of Villainy;  
From thee they all derive their Stock and Pedigree.  
Thou the lewd World with all its crying Crimes dost store,  
hardly wilt allow the Devil the cause of more.  
And what is Pleasure which does most beguile?  
That Siren which betrays us with a flattering Smile.  
We listen to the treacherous Harmony,  
Which sings but our own Obsequy.  
The Danger unperceived till Death draw nigh;  
Till drowning we want Power to 'scape the fatal Enemy.   

VIII.  
How frantic is the wanton Epicure!  
Who a perpetual Surfeit will endure?  
Who places all his chiefest Happiness  
In the Extravagancies of Excess,  
Which wise Sobriety esteems but a Disease?  
O mighty envied Happiness to eat!  
Which fond mistaken Sots call Great!  
Poor Frailty of our Flesh! which we each day  
Must thus repair for fear of ruinous decay!  
Degrading of our Nature, where vile Brutes are fain  
To make and keep up Man!  
Which, when the Paradise above we gain,  
Heaven thinks too great an Imperfection to retain!  
By each Disease the sickly Joys destroyed;  
At every Meal it's nauseous and cloyed,  
Empty at best, as when in Dream enjoyed;  
When, cheated by a slumbering Imposture, we  
Fancy a Feast, and great Regalios by;  
And think we taste, and think we see,  
And riot on imaginary Luxury.   

IX.  
Grant me, O Virtue, thy more solid lasting Joy;  
Grant me the better Pleasures of the Mind,  
Pleasures, which only in pursuit of thee we find,  
Which Fortune cannot mar, nor Chance destroy.  
One Moment in thy blessed Enjoyment is  
Worth an Eternity of that tumultuous Bliss,  
Which we derive from Sense,  
Which often cloys, and must resign to Impotence.  
Grant me but this, how will I triumph in my happy State?  
Above the Changes and Reverse of Fate;  
Above her Favours and her Hate.  
I'll scorn the worthless Treasures of Peru,  
And those of the other Indies too.  
I'll pity Caesar's self with all his Trophies and his Fame,  
And the vile brutish Herd of Epicures contemn,  
And all the Under-shrievalties of Life not worth a Name.  
Nor will I only own my Bliss,  
Like others, to a Multitude,  
Where Company keeps up a forced Happiness;  
Should all Mankind surcease to live,  
And none but individual I survive,  
Alone I would be happy, and enjoy my Solitude.  
Thus shall my Life in pleasant Minutes wear,  
Calm as the Minutes of the Evening are,  
And gentle as the motions of the upper Air;  
Soft as my Muse, and unconfined as she,  
When flowing in the numbers of Pindaric liberty.  
And when I see pale ghastly Death appear,  
That grand inevitable Test which all must bear,  
Which best distinguishes the blessed and wretched here;  
I'll smile at all its Horrors, court my welcome Destiny,  
And yield my willing Soul up in an easy Sigh;  
And Epicures that see shall envy and confess,  
That I, and those who dare like me be good, the chiefest Good possess.    

Virg. ECLOGUE VIII. The Enchantment.  
Poet, Damon, Alpheus, Speakers.  

DAmon and Alpheus, the two Shepherds Strains  
I mean to tell, and how they charmed the Plains.  
I'll tell their charming Numbers which the Herd,  
Unmindful of their Grass, in Throngs admired.  
At which fierce Savages astonished stood,  
And every River stopped its listening Flood.  
For you, Great Sir, whether with Cannons Roar  
You spread your Terror to the Holland Shore,  
Or with a gentle and a steady hand  
In Peace and Plenty rule your Native Land.  
Shall ever that auspicious Day appear,  
When I your glorious Actions shall declare?  
It shall, and I throughout the World rehearse  
Their Fame, fit only for a Spencer's Verse.  
With you my Muse began, with you shall end:  
Accept my Verse that waits on your Command;  
And deign this Ivy Wreathe a place may find  
Among the Laurels which your Temples bind.  
'Twas at the time that Night's cool shades with drew  
And left the Grass all hung with pearly Dew;  
When Damon, leaning on his Oaken Wand,  
Thus to his Pipe in gentle Lays complained.  
D. Arise, thou Morning, and drive on the Day  
While wretched I with fruitless words inveigh  
Against false Nisa, while the Gods I call  
With my last Breath, tho' hopeless to avail,  
Tho' they regard not my Complaints at all.  
Strike up my Pipe, play me in tuneful Strains  
What I heard sung on the Maenalian Plains.  
Menalus ever has its warbling Groves,  
And talking Pines, it ever hears the Loves  
Of Shepherds, and the Notes of Mighty Pan,  
The first that would not let the Reeds untuned remain.  
Strike up my Pipe, play me in tuneful Strains  
What I heard sung on the Maenalian Plains.  
Mopsus weds Nisa, Gods! what Lover e'er  
Need after this have reason to despair?  
Griffins shall now leap Mares, and the next Age  
The Deer and Hounds in Friendship shall engage.  
Go, Mopsus, get the Torches ready soon;  
Thou, happy Man, must have the Bride anon.  
Go, Bridegroom, quickly, the Nut-scramble make,  
The Evening-star quits Oeta for thy sake.  
Strike up my Pipe, play me in tuneful Strains  
What I heard sung on the Maenalian Plains.  
How fitly art thou matched who wast so nice!  
Thou haughty Nymph who didst all else despise!  
Who slightest so scornfully my Pipe, my Herd,  
My rough-grown Eyebrows, and unshaven Beard,  
And thinkest no God does mortal things regard,  
Strike up my Pipe, play me in tuneful Strains  
What I heard sung on the Maenalian Plains.  
I saw thee young, and in thy Beauty's Bloom,  
To gather Apples with thy Mother, come,  
'Twas in our Hedge-rows, I was there with Pride,  
To show you to the best, and be your Guide.  
Then I just entering my twelfth Year was found,  
I then could reach the tender Boughs from ground.  
heavens! when I saw, how soon was I undone!  
How to my heart did the quick Poison run!  
Strike up my Pipe, play me in tuneful Strains  
What I heard sung on the Maenalian Plains.  
Now I'm convinced what Love is; the cold North  
Sure in its craggy Mountains brought him forth,  
Or Africk's wildest Deserts gave him Birth,  
Amongst the Cannibals and Savage Race;  
He never of our Kind, or Country was.  
Strike up my Pipe, play me in tuneful Strains  
What I heard sung on the Maenalian Plains.  
Dire Love did once a Mother's Hand imbrue  
In children's Blood; a cruel Mother, thou;  
Hard 'tis to say of both which is the worst,  
The cruel Mother, or the Boy accursed.  
He a cursed Boy, a cruel Mother thou;  
The Devil a whit to choose betwixt the two.  
Strike up my Pipe, play me in tuneful Strains  
What I heard sung on the Maenalian Plains.  
Let Wolves by Nature shun the Sheepfolds now:  
On the rough Oaks let Oranges now grow:  
Let the corpse Alders bear the Daffodil,  
And costly Amber from the Thorn distil:  
Let Owls match Swans, let Tyt'rus Orpheus be,  
In the Woods Orpheus, and Arion on the Sea.  
Strike up my Pipe, play me in tuneful Strains  
What I heard sung on the Maenalian Plains.  
Let all the World turn Sea, ye Woods adieu!  
To some high Mountain's top I'll get me now,  
And thence myself into the Waters throw.  
There quench my Flames, and let the cruel She  
Accept this my last dying Will and Legacy.  
Cease now my Pipe, cease now those warbling Strains  
Which I heard sung on the Maenalian Plains.  
This Damon's Song; relate ye Muses now  
Alpheus' Reply: All cannot all things do.   

A. Bring Holy Water, sprinkle all around,  
And see these Altars with soft Fillets bound:  
Male-Frankincense, and juicy Vervain burn,  
I'll try if I by Magic force can turn  
My stubborn Love: I'll try if I can fire  
His frozen Breast: Nothing but Charms are wanting here.  
Bring Daphnis from the Town, ye Magic Charms;  
Bring home loved Daphnis to my longing Arms.  
Charms in her wont Course can stop the Moon,  
And from her well-fixed Orb can call her down.  
By Charms the mighty Circe (we are told)  
Ulysses famed Companions changed of old.  
Snakes, by the Virtue of Enchantment forced,  
Oft in the Meads with their own Poison burst.  
Bring Daphnis from the Town, ye Magic Charms;  
Bring home loved Daphnis to my longing Arms.  
First, these three several Threads I compass round  
Thy Image, thus in Magic Fetters bound:  
Then round these Altars thrice thy Image bear:  
Odd Numbers to the Gods delightful are.  
Bring Daphnis from the Town, ye Magic Charms,  
Bring home loved Daphnis to my longing Arms.   

Go tie me in three knots three Ribbons now,  
And let the Ribbons be of  Hue:  
Go, Amaryllis, tie them straight, and cry,  
At the same time," They're true-love-knots, I tie.  
Bring Daphnis from the Town, ye Magic Charms,  
Bring home loved Daphnis to my longing Arms.   

Look how this Clay grows harder, and look how  
With the same Fire this Wax doth softer grow;  
So Daphnis, let him with my Love do so.  
Strew Meal and Salt (for so these Rites require)  
And set the crackling Laurel Boughs on fire:  
This naughty Daphnis sets my Breast on flame.  
And I this Laurel burn in Daphnis Name.  
Bring Daphnis from the Town, ye Magic Charms  
Bring home loved Daphnis to my longing Arms.   

As a poor Heifer, wearied in the Chase,  
Of seeking her loved Steer from place to place.  
Through Woods, through Groves, through Arable, and Waste,  
On some green River's bank lies down at last:  
There Lows her Moan, despairing, and forlorn,  
And, tho' belated, minds not to return:  
Let Daphnis' Case be such, and let not me  
Take any Care to give a Remedy.  
Bring Daphnis from the Town, ye Magic Charms,  
Bring home loved Daphnis to my longing Arms   

These Garments erst the faithless Traitor left,  
Dear Pledges of his Love, of which I'm reft:  
Beneath the Threshold these I bury now,  
In thee, O Earth; these Pledges Daphnis owe.  
Bring Daphnis from the Town, ye Magic Charms,  
Bring home loved Daphnis to my longing Arms.   

Of Maeris I these Herbs and Poisons had,  
From Pontus brought: in Pontus' store are bred:  
With these I've oft seen Maeris Wonders do,  
Turn himself Wolf, and to the Forest go:  
I've often seen him Fields of Corn displace,  
From whence they grew, and Ghosts in Churchyards raise.  
Bring Daphnis from the Town, ye Magic Charms,  
Bring home loved Daphnis to my longing Arms.   

Go, Maid, go, bear the Ashes out at door,  
And them forthwith into the neighbouring current pour,  
Over thy Head, and done't look back be sure:  
I'll try, what these on Daphnis will prevail,  
The Gods he minds not, nor my Charms at all.  
Bring Daphnis from the Town, ye Magic Charms.  
Bring home loved Daphnis to my longing Arms.   

Behold! the Ashes while we lingering stay,  
While we neglect to carry them away,  
Have reached the Altar, and have fired the Wood;  
That lies upon't: Heaven send it be for good!  
Something I know not what's the matter: Hark!  
I hear our Lightfoot in the Entry bark.  
Shall I believe, or is it only Dream,  
Which Lovers fancies are too apt to frame?  
Cease now ye Magic Charms, behold him come!  
Cease needless Charms, my Daphnis is at home!    

UPON THE MARRIAGE OF THE Prince of ORANGE WITH THE Lady MARY.  

I.  
AS when of old some bright and Heavenly Dame  
A God of equal Majesty did Wed;  
Straight through the Court above the Tidings spread,  
Straight at the News th'immortal Offspring came,  
And all the Deities did the High Nuptials grace;  
With no less Pomp, no less of Grandeur we  
Behold this glad Solemnity,  
And all confess an equal Joy,  
And all expect as Godlike and as great a Race:  
Hark how united Shouts our Joys proclaim,  
Which rise in Gratitude to Heaven from whence they came;  
Gladsome next those which brought our Royal Exile home,  
When he resumed his long usurped Throne:  
Hark how the mighty Volleys rend the Air,  
And shake at once the Earth and utmost Sphere;  
Hark how the Bell's harmonious Noise  
Bear Consort too with humane Joys;  
Behold those numerous Fires, which up and down  
Threaten almost new Conflagration to the Town.  
Well do these Emblems, mighty Orange, speak thy Fame,  
Whose Loudness, Music, Brightness, all express the same;  
'Twas thus great Jove his Semele did Wed,  
In Thunder and in Lightning so approached her bed.   

II.  
Hail happy Pair! kind heavens great Hostages!  
Sure Pledges of a firm and lasting Peace!  
Call't not a Match, we that low Style disdain,  
Nor will degrade it with a Term so mean;  
A League it must be said,  
Where Countries thus Espouse, and Nations Wed:  
Our Thanks, propitious Destiny!  
Never did yet thy Power dispense  
A more Plenipotentiary Influence,  
Nor Heaven more sure a Treaty ratify:  
To YOU, our great and gracious Monarch, too  
An equal share of Thanks is due,  
Nought could this mighty Work produce, but  
Heaven and You.  
Let others boast  
Of Leagues, which Wars and Slaughter cost;  
This Union by no Blood Cemented is,  
Nor did its Harmony from Jars and Discords rise.  
Not more to your great Ancestor we own,  
By whom two Realms into one Kingdom grow,  
He joined but what Nature had joined before,  
Lands disunited by no parting Shore:  
By You to Foreign Countries we're Allied,  
You make Us Continent whom Seas and Waves divide.   

III.  
How well, Brave Prince, do you by prudent Conduct prove  
What was denied to mighty Jove,  
Together to be Wise and Love?  
In this you highest Skill of Choice and Judgement show,  
'Tis here displayed, and here rewarded too;  
Others move only by unbridled guideless Heat,  
But you mix Love with Policy, Passion with State:  
You scorned the Painter's Hands your Hearts should tie,  
Which oft (and here they must) the Original belie,  
(For how should Art that Beauty undertake,  
Which Heaven would strive in vain again to make?)  
Taught by Religion you did better Methods try,  
And worshipped not the Image, but the Deity:  
Go, envied Prince, your glorious BRIDE receive,  
Too great for aught but mighty YORK to give:  
She, whom if none must Wed, but those who merit Her,  
Monarches might cease Pretence, and flighted God's despair:  
Think You in Her far greater Conquests gain,  
Than all the Powers of France have from your Country ta'en.  
In her fair Arms let your Ambition bounded lie,  
And fancy there an Universal Monarchy!   

iv  
And you fair Princess, who could thus subdue,  
What France with all its Forces could not do,  
Enjoy your glorious Prize,  
Enjoy the Triumphs of your conquering Eyes:  
From Him, and th' Height of your great Mind look down,  
And with neglect despise a Throne,  
And think't as great to Merit, as to wear a Crown:  
Nassau is all which your Desires or Thoughts can frame,  
All Titles lodge within that single Name;  
A Name, which Mars himself would with Ambition bear,  
Prouder in that, than to be called the God of War:  
To you, great Madam, (if your Joys admit Increase,  
If Heaven has not already set your Happiness  
Above its Power to raise)  
To You the zealous humble Muse  
These solemn Wishes Consecrates and Vows,  
And begs you'll not her Offering refuse,  
Which not your Want, but her Devotion shows.   

V  
May your great Consort still successful prove,  
In all his high Attempts, as in your Love;  
May he through all Attacks of Chance appear  
As free from Danger, as he is from Fear;  
May neither Sense of Grief, or Trouble know,  
But what in Pity you to others show:  
May you be fruitful in as numerous Store  
Of Princely Births, as She who your great Father bore:  
May Heaven to your just Merits kind  
Repeal the ancient Curse on Womankind;  
Easie and gentle, as the Labours of the Brain  
May yours all prove, and just so free from Pain:  
May no rude Noise of War approach your Bed,  
But Peace her downy Wings about you spread,  
Calm as the Season, when fair Halcyons breed.  
May you, and the just owner of your Breast,  
Both in as full Content and Happiness be blest,  
As the first sinless Pair of old enjoyed:  
E'er Gild their Innocence and that destroyed:  
Till nothing but Continuance to your Bliss can add,  
And you by Heaven alone be happier made;  
Till future Poets who your Lives review,  
When they'd their utmost Pitch of Flattery show,  
Shall pray their Patrons may become like you;  
Nor know to frame a skilful Wish more great,  
Nor think a higher Blessing in the Gift of Fate.    

AN ODE For an Anniversary of MUSIC on S. Cecilia's Day.  

I.  
BEgin the Song, your Instruments advance,  
Tune the Voice, and Tune the Flute,  
Touch the silent sleeping Lute,  
And make the Strings to their own Measures dance.  
Bring gentlest Thoughts that into Language glide,  
Bring softest Words that into Numbers slide:  
Let every Hand and every Tongue  
To make the Noble Consort throng.  
Let all in one harmonious Note agree  
To frame the mighty Song,  
For this is Music's sacred Jubilee.   

II.  
Hark how the wakened Strings resound,  
And break the yielding Air,  
The ravished Sense how pleasingly they wound,  
And call the listening Soul into the Ear;  
Each Pulse beats time, and every Heart,  
With Tongue and Fingers bears a part.  
By Harmonies entrancing Power,  
When we are thus wound up to Ecstasy;  
Methinks we mount, methinks we tower,  
And seem to antedate our future Bliss on high.   

III.  
How dull were Life, how hardly worth our care,  
But for the Charms that Music lends!  
How faint its Pleasures would appear,  
But for the Pleasure which our Art attends!  
Without the Sweets of Melody,  
To tune our vital Breath,  
Who would not give it up to Death,  
And in the silent Grave contented lie?   

iv  
music's the Cordial of a troubled Breast,  
The softest Remedy that Grief can find;  
The gentle Spell that charms our Care to rest,  
And calms the ruffled Passions of the Mind.  
Music does all our Joy refine,  
It gives the Relish to our Wine,  
'Tis that gives Rapture to our Love,  
And Wings Devotion to a pitch Divine;  
'Tis our chief Bliss on Earth, and half our Heaven above.   

Chorus.  
Come then with tuneful Throat and String  
The Praises of our Art let's sing;  
Let's sing to Blessed CECILIA's Fame,  
That graced this Art, and gave this Day its Name;  
With Music, Wine, and Mirth conspire  
To bear a Consort, and make up the Choir.    

TO MADAM L. E. Upon her Recovery from a late Sickness.  
Madam,  

PArdon, that with slow Gladness we so late  
Your wished return of Health congratulate:  
Our Joys at first so thronged to get abroad,  
They hindered one another in the crowd;  
And now such haste to tell their Message make,  
They only stammer what they meant to speak.   

You the fair Subject which I am to sing,  
To whose kind Hands this humble joy I bring:  
Aid me, I beg, while I this Theme pursue,  
For I invoke no other Muse but you.  
Long time had you here brightly shone below  
With all the Rays kind Heaven could bestow.  
No envious Cloud e'er offered to invade  
Your Lustre, or compel it to a Shade:  
Nor did it yet by any Sign appear,  
But that you throughout Immortal were.  
Till Heaven (if Heaven could prove so cruel) sent  
To interrupt the Growth of your content,  
As if it grudged those Gifts you did enjoy,  
And would that Bounty which it gave, destroy:  
'Twas since your Excellence did envy move  
In those high Powers and made them jealous prove.  
They thought these Glories should they still have shined  
Unsullied, were too much for Womankind.  
Which might they write as lasting as they're Fair,  
Too great for aught but Deities appear:  
But Heaven (it may be) was not yet complete,  
And lacked you there to fill your empty Seat.  
And when it could not fairly woe you hence,  
Turned Ravisher, and offered Violence.   

Sickness did first a formal siege begin,  
And by sure slowness tried your Life to win.  
As if by lingering methods Heaven meant  
To chase you hence and tyre you to consent.  
But, thus in vain, Fate did to force resort,  
And next by Storm strove to attack the Fort,  
A Sleep, dull as your last, did you Arrest,  
And all their Magazines of Life possessed.  
No more the Blood its circling course did run,  
But in the Veins, like Icicles, it hung.  
No more the Heart (now void of quickening heat)  
The tuneful March of vital Motion beat.  
Stiffness did into all the Sinews climb,  
And a short Death crept cold through every Limb.  
All Signs of Life from sight so far withdrew,  
'Twas now thought Popery to pray for you.   

There might you (were not that sense lost) have seen  
How your true Death would have resented been:  
A Lethargy, like yours, each Breast did seize,  
And all by Sympathy catcht your Disease.  
Around you silent Imagery appears,  
And nought in the Spectators moves, but Tears.  
They pay what Grief were to your Funeral due,  
And yet dare hope Heaven would your Life renew.   

Mean while, all means, all Drugs prescribed are,  
Which the decays of Health, or Strength repair,  
Medicines so powerful they new Souls would save,  
And Life in long-dead Carcases retrieve:  
But these in vain, they rougher Methods try,  
And now you're Martyred that you may not die;  
Sad Scene of Fate! when Tortures were your gain:  
And 'twas a kindness thought to wish you pain!  
As if the slackened string of Life run down,  
Can only by the Rack be screwed in tune.   

But Heaven at last (grown conscious that its power  
Can scarce what was to die with you restore,)  
And loath to see such Glories overcome,  
Sent a Post-Angel to repeal your doom;  
Straight Fate obeyed the Charge which Heaven sent,  
And gave this first dear Proof, it could Repent:  
Triumphant Charms! what may not you subdue,  
When Fate's your Slave, and thus submits to you!  
It now again the new-broke Thread does knit,  
And for another Clew her Spindle fit:  
And life's hid spark which did unquenched remain,  
Caught the fled light and brought it back again:  
Thus you revived, and all our Joy with you,  
Revived and found their Resurrection too:  
Some only grieved, that what was deathless thought  
They saw so near to Fatal ruin brought:  
Now crowds of Blessings on that happy hand,  
Whose skill could eager Destiny withstand;  
Whose learned Power has rescued from the Grave,  
That Life which 'twas a Miracle to save;  
That Life which were it thus untimely lost,  
Had been the fairest Spoil Death e'er could boast:  
May he henceforth be God of Healing thought,  
By whom such good to you and us was brought:  
Altars and Shrines to him are justly due,  
Who showed himself a God by raising you.   

But say, fair Saint, for you alone can know,  
Wither your Soul in this short flight did go;  
Went it to antedate that Happiness,  
You must at last (though late we hope) possess?  
Inform us lest we should your Fate belie,  
And call that Death which was but Ecstasy,  
The Queen of Love (we're told) once let us see:  
That Goddesses from Wounds could not be free;  
And you by this unwished Occasion show  
That they like Mortal us can Sickness know:  
Pity! that Heaven should all its Titles give,  
And yet not let you with them ever live.  
You'd lack no point that makes a Deity,  
If you could like it too Immortal be.   

And so you are; half boasts a Deathless State;  
Although your frailer Part must yield to Fate.  
By every breach in that fair lodging made,  
Its blessed Inhabitant is more displayed:  
In that white Snow which over-spreads your Skin,  
We trace the whiter Soul which dwells within;  
Which while you through this shining Hue display  
Looks like a Star placed in the milky way:  
Such the bright Bodies of the Blessed are,  
When they for Raiment clothed with Light appear,  
And should you visit now the Seats of Bliss,  
You need not wear another form but this.  
Never did Sickness in such Pomp appear,  
As when it thus your Livery did wear,  
Disease itself looked amiable here.  
So Clouds which would obscure the Sun oft gilded be,  
And Shades are taught to shine as bright as he.   

Grieve not fair Nymph, when in your Glass you trace  
The marring Footsteps of a pale Disease.  
Regret not that your Cheeks their Roses want,  
Which a few Days shall in full store replant,  
Which, whilst your Blood withdraws its guilty Red,  
Tells that you own no Faults that Blushes need:  
The Sun whose Bounty does each Spring restore  
What Winter from the rifled Meadows tore,  
Which every Morning with an early Ray  
Paints the young blushing Cheeks of instant Day:  
Whose skill (inimitable here below,)  
Limns those gay Clouds which form heavens coloured Bow,  
That Sun shall soon with Interest repay,  
All the lost Beauty Sickness snatched away.  
Your Beams like his shall hourly now advance,  
And every Minute their swift Growth enhance.   

Mean while (that you no helps of Healths refuse)  
Accept these humble Wishes of the Muse:  
Which shall not of their just Petition fail,  
If she (and she's a Goddess) ought prevail.   

May no profane Disease henceforth approach,  
This sacred Temple with unhallowed touch,  
Or with rude sacrilege its frame debauch.  
May these fair Members always happy be  
In as full Strength and well-set Harmony,  
As the new Foundress of your Sex could boast,  
Ere she by Sin her first Perfection lost:  
May Destiny, just to your Merits, twine  
All your smooth Fortunes in a Silken Line.  
And that you may at Heaven late arrive,  
May it to you its largest Bottom give.  
May Heaven with still repeated Favours bless,  
Till it its Power below its Will confess;  
Till Wishes can no more exalt your Fate,  
Nor Poets fancy you more fortunate.    

ON THE DEATH OF Mrs Katherine Kingscourt, A Child of Excellent Parts and Piety.  

SHE did, She did— I saw her mount the Sky,  
And with new Whiteness paint the Galaxy.  
Heaven her methought with all its Eyes did view,  
And yet acknowledged all its Eyes too few.  
Methought I saw in Crowds blest Spirits meet,  
And with loud Welcomes her Arrival greet;  
Which could they grieve, had gone with grief away  
To see a Soul more white, more pure than they.   

Earth was unworthy such a Prize as this,  
Only a while Heaven let us share the Bliss:  
In vain her stay with fruitless Tears we'd woe,  
In vain we'd Court, when that our Rival grew.  
Thanks, ye kind Powers! who did so long dispense,  
(Since you so wished her) with her absence thence:  
We now resign, to you alone we grant  
The sweet Monopoly of such a Saint;  
So pure a Saint, I scarce dare call her so,  
For fear to wrong her with a Name too low:  
Such a Scraphick brightness in her shined,  
I hardly can believe her Womankind.  
'Twas sure some noble Being left the Sphere,  
Which deigned a little to inhabit here,  
And can't be said to die, but disappear.  
Or if she Mortal was and meant to show  
The greater skill by being made below;  
Sure Heaven preserved her by the fall uncurst,  
To tell how all the Sex were formed at first:  
Never did yet so much Divinity  
In such a small Compendium crowded lie.  
By her we credit what the Learned tell,  
That many Angels in one Point can dwell.  
More damned Fiends did not in Mary rest,  
Than lodged of Blessed Spirits in her Breast;  
Religion dawn'd so early in her mind,  
You'd think her Saint, whilst in the Womb enshrined,  
Nay, that bright ray which did her Temples paint,  
Proclaimed her clearly, while alive, a Saint.  
Scarce had she learned to lisp Religion's Name,  
E'er she by her Example preached the same,  
And taught her Cradle like the Pulpit to reclaim.  
No Action did within her Practice fall  
Which for th' Atonement of a Blush could call:  
No word of hers e'er greeted any Ear,  
But what a dying Saint confessed might hear.  
Her Thoughts had scarcely ever sullied been  
By the least Footsteps of Original Sin.  
Her Life did still as much Devotion breath  
As others do at their last Gasp in Death.  
Hence on her Tomb of her let not be said,  
So long she lived; but thus, so long she prayed.    

A SUNDAY-THOUGHT In Sickness.  
LOrd, how dreadful is the Prospect of Death at the remotest Distance! How the smallest Apprehension of it can palls the most gay, airy and brisk Spirits! Even I, who thought I could have been merry in sight of my Coffin, and drink a Health with the Sexton in my own Grave, now tremble at the least Envoy of the King of Terrors. To see but the shaking of my Glass makes me turn pale, and fear is like to prevent and do the Work of my Distemper. All the Jollity of my Humour and Conversation is turned on a sudden into chagrin and melancholy, black as Despair, and dark as the Grave. My Soul and Body seem at once laid out, and I fancy all the Plummets of Eternal Night already hanging upon my Temples. But whence proceed these Fears? Certainty they are not idle Dreams, nor the accidental Product of my Disease, which disorders the Brains, and fills 'em with odd Chimaeras. Why should my Soul be averse to its Enlargement? Why should it be content to be knit up in two Yards of Skin, when it may have all the World for its Purliew? 'Tis not that I'm unwilling to leave my Relations and present Friends: I'm parted from the first already, and could be severed from both the length of the whole Map, and live with my Body as far distant from them as my Soul must when I'm dead. Neither is it that I'm loath to leave the Delights and Pleasures of the World; some of them I have tried, and found empty, the others covet not, because unknown. I'm confident I could despise 'em all by a Greatness of Soul, did not the Bible oblige me, and Divines tell me, 'tis my Duty. It is not neither that I'm unwilling to go hence before I've Established a Reputation, and something to make me survive myself. I could have been content to be Stillborn, and have no more than the Register, or Sexton to tell that I've ever been in the Land of the Living. In Fine, 'tis not from a Principle of Cowardice, which the Schools have called Self-preservation, the poor Effect of Instinct and dull pretence of a Brute as well as me. This Unwillingness therefore, and Aversion to undergo the general Fate, must have a juster Original, and flow from a more important Cause. I'm well satisfied that this other Being within, that moves and actuates my Frame of Flesh and Blood, has a Life beyond it and the Grave; and something in it prompts me to believe its immortality. A Residence it must have somewhere else, when it has left this Carcase, and another State to pass into, unchangeable and everlasting as itself after its Separation. This Condition must be good or bad according to its Actions and Deserts in this Life; for as it owes its Being to some Infinite Power that created it, I well suppose it his Vassal, and obliged to live by his Law; and as certainly conclude, that according to the keeping or breaking of that Law, 'tis to be rewarded or punished hereafter. This Diversity of Rewards and Punishments, makes the two Places, Heaven and Hell, so often mentioned in Scripture, and talked of in Pulpits: Of the later my Fears too cruelly convince me, and the Anticipation of its Torment, which I already feel in my own Conscience. There is, there is a Hell, and damned Fiends, and a neverdying Worm, and that Sceptic that doubts of it, may find 'em all within my single Breast. I dare not any longer with the Atheist disbelieve them, or think 'em the Clergy's Bugbears, invented as Nurses do frightful Names for their Children, to scare 'em into Quietness and Obedience. How oft have I triumphed in my unconcerned and seared insensibility? How oft boasted of that unhappy suspected Calm, which, like that of the dead Sea, proved only my Curse, and a treacherous Ambush to those Storms, which at present (and will for ever I dread) shipwreck my Quiet and Hopes? How oft have I rejected the Advice of that Bosom-Friend, and drowned its Alarms in the Noise of a tumultuous Debauch, or by stupifying Wine (like some condemned Malefactor) armed myself against the Apprehensions of my certain Doom? Now, now the Tyrant awakes, and comes to pay at once all Arrears of Cruelty. At last, but too late (like drowning Mariners) I see the gay Monsters, which inveigled me into my Death and Destruction. Oh the gnawing Remorse of a rash unguarded, unconsidering Sinner! Oh how the Ghosts of former Crimes affright my haunted Imagination, and make me suffer a thousand Racks and Martyrdoms! I see, methinks, the Jaws of Destruction gaping wide to swallow me; and I, (like one sliding on Ice) though I see the Danger, cannot stop from running into it. My Fancy represents to me a whole Legion of Devils, ready to tear me in pieces, numberless as my Sins or Fears; and whither, Alas! whither shall I fly for Refuge? Where shall I retreat and take Sanctuary? Shall I call the Rocks and Mountains to cover me; or bid the Earth yawn wide to its Centre, and take me in? Poor shift of escaping Almighty Justice! Distracting Frenzy! that would make me believe Contradictions, and hope to fly out of the reach of him whose Presence is every where, not excluded Hell itself; for he is there in the effects of his Vengeance. Shall I invoke some Power infinite as that that created me, to reduce me to nothing again, and rid me at once of my Being and all that tortures it? Oh no, 'tis in vain, I must be forced into Being, to keep me fresh for Torment, and retain Sense only to feel Pain. I must be adying to all Eternity, and live ever, to live ever wretched. Oh that Nature had placed me in the Rank of things that have only a bare Existence, or at best, an Animal Life, and never given me a Soul and Reason, which now must contribute to my Misery, and make me envy Brutes and Vegetables! Would the Womb that bore me had been my Prison till now, or I stepped out of it it into my Grave, and saved the Expenses and Toil of a long and tedious Journey, where Life affords nothing of Accommodations to invite one's stay. Happy had I been if I had expired with my first Breath, and entered the Bill of Mortality as soon as the World: Happy if I had been drowned in my Font, and that Water which was to Regenerate, and give me New Life, had proved Mortal in another Sense! I had then died without any Gild of my own, but what I brought into the World with me, and that too atoned for; I mean that which I contracted from my first Parents, my unhappiness rather than Fault, inasmuch as I was fain to be born of a Sinning Race: Then I had never enhanced it with acquired Gild, never added those innumerable Crimes which must make up my Indictment at the Grand Audit. Ungrateful Wretch! I've made my Sins as numerous as those Blessings and Mercies the Almighty Bounty has conferred upon me, to oblige and lead me to Repentance. How have I abused and misemployed those Parts and Talents which might have rendered me serviceable to Mankind, and repaid an Interest of Glory to their Donor? How ill do they turn to account which I have made the Patrons of Debauchery, and Pimps and Panders to Vice? How oft have I broke my Vows to my Great Creator, which I would be conscientious of keeping to a silly Woman, a Creature beneath myself? What has all my Religion been but an empty Parade and Show? Either an useful Hypocrisy taken up for Interest, or a gay specious Formality worn in Complaisance to Custom and the Mode, and as changeable as my  and their Fashion. How oft have I gone to Church (the place where we are to pay him Homage and Duty) as to an Assignation or Play, only for Diversion; or at best, as I must ere long (for aught I know) with my Soul severed from my Body? How I tremble at the Remembrance! as if I could put the Shame upon Heaven, or a God were to be imposed on like my Fellow-Creature: And dare I, convicted of these High Treasons against the King of Glory, dare I expect a Reprieve or Pardon? Has he Thunder, and are not all his Bolts levelled at my Head, to strike me through the very Centre? Yes, I dare appeal to thee, boundless Pity and Compassion! My own Instances already tells me, that thy Mercy is infinite; for I've done enough to shock Longsufferance itself, and weary out an Eternal Patience. I beseech thee by thy soft and gentle Attributes of Mercy and Forgiveness, by the last dying Accents of my suffering Deity, have Pity on a poor, humble, prostrate and confessing Sinner: And thou great Ransom of lost Mankind, who offered'st thyself a Sacrifice to atone our Gild, and redeem our mortgaged Happiness, do thou be my Advocate, and intercede for me with the Angry Judge.  

My Prayers are heard, a glorious Light now shone,  
And (lo!) An Angel-Post comes hastening down:  
From Heaven I see him cut the yielding Air;  
So swift, he seems at once both there and here;  
So quick, my sight in the pursuit was slow,  
And Thought could scarce so soon the Journey go.  
No angry Message in his Look appears,  
His Face no signs of threatening Vengeance wears.  
Comely his shape, of Heavenly Mien and Air,  
Kinder than Smiles of beauteous Virgins are.  
Such he was seen by the blessed Maid of old  
When he th' Almighty Infant's Birth foretold.  
A mighty Volume in one hand is born,  
Whose opened Leaves the other seems to turn:  
Vast Annals of my Sins in Scarlet writ,  
But now erased, blot our, and cancelled quite.  
Hark how the Heavenly Whisper strikes mine Ear,  
Mortal, behold thy Crimes all pardoned here!  
Hail Sacred Envoy of th' Eternal King!  
Welcome as the blessed Tidings thou dost bring.  
Welcome as Heaven from whence thou cam'st but now,  
Thus low to thy great God and mine I bow,  
And might I here, O might I ever grow,  
Fixed an unmoved and endless Monument  
Of Gratitude to my Creator sent.    

TO THE MEMORY OF Mr. Charles Morwent.  
A PINDARIC.  
Ignis utique quo clariùs effulsit, citiùs extinguitur, eripit se aufertque ex oculis subitò perfecta virtus: quicquid est absoluti faciliùs transfluit, & optimi neutiquam diurnant. Cambden. de Phil. Syd.  
O celeres hominum bonorum dies. Apul.  
LONDON: Printed in the Year 1687.   

To the Memory of my Dear Friend, Mr. CHARLES MORWENT: A PINDARIC.  
Ostendunt terris hunc tantùm fata, nec ultrà  
Esse sinunt.—  Virg. 

I.  
BEst Friend! could my unbounded Grief but rate  
With due proportion thy too cruel Fate;  
Can I some happy Miracle bring forth,  
Great as my Wishes and thy greater Worth,  
All Helicon should soon be thine,  
And pay a Tribute to thy Shrine.  
The learned Sisters all transformed should be,  
No longer nine, but one Melpomene:  
Each should into a Niobe relent,  
At once thy Mourner and thy Monument,  
Each should become  
Like the famed Memnon's speaking Tomb,  
To sing thy well-tuned Praise;  
Nor should we fear their being dumb,  
Thou still wouldst make 'em vocal with thy Rays.   

II.  
O that I could distil my vital Juice in Tears!  
Or wast away my Soul in sobbing Airs!  
Were I all Eyes,  
To flow in liquid Elegies:  
That every Limb might grieve,  
And dying Sorrow still retrieve;  
My Life should be but one long mourning day,  
And like moist Vapours melt in Tears away.  
I'd soon dissolve in one great Sighs,  
And upwards fly,  
Glad so to be exhaled to Heaven and thee.  
A Sigh which might well-nigh reverse thy death,  
And hope to animate thee with new Breath;  
Powerful as that which heretofore did give  
A Soul to well-formed Clay, and made it live.   

III.  
Adieu, blessed Soul! whose hasty Flight away  
Tells Heaven did ne'er display  
Such Happiness to bless the World with stay.  
Death in thy Fall betrayed her utmost spite,  
And showed her shafts most times are levelled at the white.  
She saw thy blooming Ripeness time prevent;  
She saw, and envious grew, and strait her arrow sent.  
So Buds appearing e'er the Frosts are past,  
Nipped by some unkind Blast,  
Whither in Penance for their forward haste.  
Thus have I seen a Morn so bright,  
So decked with all the Robes of Light,  
As if it scorned to think of Night,  
Which a rude Storm e'er Noon did shroud,  
And buried all its early Glories in a Cloud.  
The day in funeral Blackness mourned,  
And all to Sighs, and all to Tears it turned.   

iv  
But why do we thy Death untimely deem;  
Or Fate blaspheme?  
We should thy full ripe Virtues wrong,  
To think thee young.  
Fate, when she did thy vigorous Growth behold,  
And all thy forward Glories told,  
Forgot thy tale of Years, and thought thee old.  
The brisk Endowments of thy Mind  
Scorning i'th' Bud to be confined,  
Outran thy Age, and left slow Time behind;  
Which made thee reach Maturity so soon,  
And at first Dawn present a full-spread Noon.  
So thy Perfections with thy Soul agree,  
Both knew no Nonage, knew no Infancy.  
Thus the first Pattern of our Race began  
His Life in middle-age, at's Birth a perfect Man.   

V  
So well thou acted'st in thy Span of Days,  
As calls at once for Wonder and for Praise.  
Thy prudent Conduct had so learned to measure  
The different while of Toil and Leisure,  
No time did Action want, no Action wanted Pleasure.  
Thy busy Industry could Time dilate,  
And stretch the Thread of Fate:  
Thy careful Thrift could only boast the Power  
To lengthen Minutes, and extend an Hour.  
No single Sand could e'er slip by  
Without its Wonder, sweet as high:  
And every teeming Moment still brought forth  
A thousand Rarities of Worth.  
While some no other Cause for Life can give,  
But a dull Habitude to live:  
Thou scornedst such Laziness while here beneath,  
And Liv'dst that time which others only Breath.   

VI  
Next our just Wonder does commence,  
How so small Room could hold such Excellence.  
Nature was proud when she contrived thy Frame,  
In thee she laboured for a Name:  
Hence 'twas she lavished all her Store,  
As if she meant hereafter to be poor,  
And, like a Bankrupt, run o'th' Score.  
Her curious Hand here drew in straits and joined  
All the Perfections lodge in Humane kind;  
Teaching her numerous Gifts to lie  
Cramped in a short Epitome.  
So Stars contracted in a Diamond shine,  
And Jewels in a narrow Point confine  
The Riches of an Indian Mine.  
Thus subtle Artists can  
Draw Nature's larger self within a Span:  
A small Frame holds the World, Earth, heavens and all  
Shrunk to the scant Dimensions of a Ball.   

VII.  
Those Parts which never in one Subject dwell,  
But some uncommon Excellence foretell,  
Like Stars did all constellate here,  
And met together in one Sphere.  
Thy Judgement, Wit and Memory conspired  
To make themselves and thee admired:  
And could thy growing Height a longer Stay have known,  
Thou hadst all other Glories, and thyself outdone.  
While some to Knowledge by degrees arrive,  
Through tedious Industry improved,  
Thine scorned by such pedantic Rules to thrive;  
But swift as that of Angels moved,  
And made us think it was intuitive.  
Thy pregnant Mind ne'er struggled in its Birth,  
But quick, and while it did conceive, brought forth;  
The gentle Throes of thy prolific Brain  
Were all unstrained, and without Pain.  
Thus when Great Jove the Queen of Wisdom bore  
So easy and so mild his Travels were.   

VIII.  
Nor were these Fruits in a rough Soil bestown  
As Gems are thick'st in rugged Quarries sown.  
Good Nature and good parts so shared thy mind,  
A Muse and Grace were so combined,  
'Twas hard to guests which with most Lustre shined,  
A Genius did thy whole Comportment act,  
Whose charming Complaisance did so attract,  
As every Heart attacked.  
Such a soft Air thy well-tuned Sweetness swayed,  
As told thy Soul of Harmony was made;  
All rude Affections that Disturbers be,  
That mar or disunite Society,  
Were Foreiners to thee.  
Love only in their stead took up its Rest;  
Nature made that thy constant Guest,  
And seemed to form no other Passion for thy Breast.   

IX.  
This made thy Courteousness to all extend,  
And thee to the whole Universe a Friend.  
Those which were Strangers to thy native Soil and thee  
No Strangers to thy Love could be,  
Whose Bounds were wide as all Mortality.  
Thy Heart no Island was, disjoined  
(Like thy own Nation) from all human kind;  
But 'twas a Continent to other Countries fixed  
As firm by Love, as they by Earth annexed.  
Thou scornedst the Map should thy Affection guide,  
Like theirs who love by dull Geography,  
Friends but to whom by Soil they are allied:  
Thine reached to all beside,  
To every Member of the World's great Family.  
heavens Kindness only claims a Name more general,  
Which we the nobler call,  
Because 'tis common, and vouchsafed to all.   

X.  
Such thy Ambition of obliging was,  
Thou seemedst corrupted with the very Power to please.  
Only to let thee gratify,  
At once did bribe and pay thy Courtesy.  
Thy Kindness by Acceptance might be bought,  
It for no other Wages sought,  
But would its own be thought.  
No Suitors went unsatisfied away;  
But left thee more unsatisfied than they.  
Brave Titus! thou mightst hear thy true Portraiture find,  
And view thy Rival in a private mind.  
Thou heretofore deserv'dst such Praise,  
When Acts of Goodness did compute thy days,  
Measured not by the Sun's, but thine own kinder Rays.  
Thou thought'st each hour out of Life's Journal lost,  
Which could not some fresh Favour boast,  
And reckon'dst Bounties thy best Clepsydras.   

XI.  
Some Fools who the great Art of giving want,  
Deflower their Largess with too slow a Grant:  
Where the deluded Suitor dearly buys  
What hardly can defray  
The Expense of Importunities,  
Or the Suspense of torturing Delay.  
Here was no need of tedious Prayers to sue,  
Or thy too backward Kindness woe.  
It moved with no formal State,  
Like theirs whose Pomp does for entreaty wait:  
But met the swift'st Desires half way;  
And Wishes did well-nigh anticipate;  
And then as modestly withdrew,  
Nor for its due Reward of Thanks would stay.   

XII.  
Yet might this Goodness to the happy most accrue;  
Somewhat was to the miserable due,  
Which they might justly challenge too.  
Whate'er Mishap did a known Heart oppress,  
The same did thine as wretched make;  
Like yielding Wax thine did th' Impressions take,  
And paint its Sadness in as lively Dress.  
Thou couldst afflictions from another Breast translate,  
And foreign Grief impropriate;  
Oft-times our Sorrows thine so much have grown,  
They scarce were more our own;  
Who seemed exempt, thou suffer'dst all alone.   

XIII.  
Our smallest Misfortunes scarce could reach thy Ear,  
But made thee give in Alms a Tear;  
And when our Hearts breathed their regret in sighs,  
As a just Tribute to their Miseries,  
Thine with their mournful Airs did symbolise.  
Like Throngs of Sighs did for its Fibres crowd,  
And told thy Grief from our each Grief aloud:  
Such is the secret Sympathy  
We may betwixt two neighbouring Lutes descry,  
If either by unskilful hand too rudely bend  
Its soft Complaint in pensive murmurs vent,  
As if it did that Injury resent:  
Untouched the other straight returns the Moan,  
And gives an Echo to each Groan.  
From its sweet Bowels a sad Note's conveyed,  
Like those which to condole are made,  
As if its Bowels too a kind Compassion had.   

XIV.  
Nor was thy goodness bounded with so small extent,  
Or in such narrow Limits penned.  
Let Female Frailty in fond Tears distil,  
Who think that Moisture which they spill  
Can yield Relief,  
Or shrink the Current of another's Grief,  
Who hope that Breath which they in sighs convey,  
Should blow Calamities away.  
Thine did a manlier Form express,  
And scorned to whine at an Unhappiness;  
Thou thought'st it still the noblest Pity to redress.  
So friendly Angels their Relief bestow  
On the unfortunate below,  
For whom those purer minds no Passion know:  
Such Nature in that generous Plant is found,  
Whose every Breach does with a Salve abound,  
And wounds itself to cure another's Wound.  
In pity to Mankind it sheds its Juice,  
Glad with expense of Blood to serve their Use:  
First with kind Tears our Maladies bewails,  
And after heals;  
And makes those very Tears the remedy produce.   

XV.  
Nor didst thou to thy Foes less generous appear,  
(If there were any durst that Title wear.)  
They could not offer Wrongs so fast,  
But what were pardoned with like haste;  
And by thy acts of Amnesty defaced.  
Had he who wished the Art how to forget,  
Discovered its new Worth in thee,  
He had a double Value on it set,  
And justly scorned th' ignobler Art of Memory.  
No Wrongs could thy great Soul to Grief expose,  
'Twas placed as much out of the reach of those,  
As of material Blows.  
No Injuries could thee provoke,  
Thy Softness always dampt the stroke:  
As Flints on Featherbeds are easiest broke.  
Affronts could ne'er thy cool Complexion heat,  
Or chafe thy temper from its settled State:  
But still thou stoodst unshockt by all,  
As if thou hadst unlearnt the Power to hate,  
Or, like the Dove, wert born without a Gall.   

XVI.  
Vain Stoics who disclaim all Human Sense,  
And own no Passions to resent Offence,  
May pass it by with unconcerned Neglect,  
And Virtue on those Principles erect,  
Where 'tis not a Perfection, but Defect.  
Let these themselves in a dull Patience please,  
Which their own Statues may possess,  
And they themselves when Carcases.  
Thou only couldst to that high pitch arrive,  
To court Abuses, that thou mightst forgive:  
Wrongs thus in thy Esteem seemed Courtesy,  
And thou the first was e'er obliged by Injury.   

XVII.  
Nor may we think these Godlike Qualities  
Can stand in need of Votaries,  
Which heretofore had challenged Sacrifice.  
Each Assignation, each Converse  
Gained thee some new Idolaters.  
Thy sweet Obligingness could supple Hate,  
And out of it its Contrary create.  
It's powerful Influence made Quarrels cease,  
And Feuds dissolved into a calmer Peace.  
Envy resigned her Force, and vanquished Spite  
Became thy speedy Proselyte.  
Malice could cherish Enmity no more;  
And those which were thy Foes before,  
Now wished they might adore,  
Caesar may tell of Nations took,  
And Troops by Force subjected to his Yoke:  
We read as great a Conqueror in thee,  
Who couldst by milder ways all Hearts subdue,  
The nobler Conquest of the two;  
Thus thou whole Legions mad'st thy Captives be,  
And like him too couldst look, and speak thy Victory.   

XVIII.  
Hence may we Calculate the Tenderness  
Thou didst Express  
To all, whom thou didst with thy Friendship bless:  
To think of Passion by new Mothers bore  
To the young Offspring of their Womb,  
Or that of Lovers to what they Adore,  
Ere Duty it become:  
We should too mean Ideas frame,  
Of that which thine might justly claim,  
And injure it by a degrading Name:  
Conceive the tender Care,  
Of guardian Angels to their Charge assigned,  
Or think how dear  
To Heaven Expiring Martyrs are;  
These are the Emblems of thy mind,  
The only Types to show how thou wast kind.   

XIX.  
On whomsoe'er thou didst confer this Tie  
'Twas lasting as Eternity,  
And firm as the unbroken Chain of Destiny,  
Embraces would faint shadows of your Union show,  
Unless you could together grow.  
That Union which is from Alliance bred,  
Does not so fastly wed,  
Tho it with Blood be cemented:  
That Link wherewith the Soul and Body's joined,  
Which twists the double Nature in Mankind  
Only so close can bind.  
That holy Fire which Romans to their Vesta paid,  
Which they immortal as the Goddess made,  
Thy noble Flames most fitly parallel;  
For thine were just so pure, and just so durable.  
Those feigned Pairs of Faithfulness which claim  
So high a place in ancient Fame,  
Had they thy better Pattern seen,  
They'd made their Friendship more divine  
And strove to mend their Characters by thine.   

XX.  
Yet had this Friendship no advantage been,  
Unless 'twere exercised within;  
What did thy Love to other Objects tie,  
The same made thy own Powers agree,  
And reconciled thyself to thee.  
No Discord in thy Soul did rest,  
Save what its Harmony increased.  
Thy mind did with such regular Calmness move,  
As held resemblance with the greater Mind above.  
Reason there fixed its peaceful Throne,  
And reigned alone.  
The Will its easy Neck to Bondage gave,  
And to the ruling Faculty became a Slave.  
The Passions raised no Civil Wars,  
Nor discomposed thee with intestine Jars:  
All did obey,  
And paid Allegiance to its rightful Sway.  
All threw their resty Tempers by,  
And gentler Figures drew,  
Gentle as Nature in its Infancy,  
As when themselves in their first Being's grew.   

XXI.  
Thy Soul within such silent Pomp did keep.  
As if Humanity were lulled asleep.  
So gentle was thy Pilgrimage beneath,  
Time's unheard Feet scarce makeless noise,  
Or the soft Journey which a Planet goes.  
Life seemed all calm as its last Breath.  
A still Tranquillity so hushed thy Breast,  
As if some Halcyon were its Guest,  
And there had built her Nest;  
It hardly now enjoys a greater Rest.  
As that smooth Sea which wears the Name of Peace,  
Still with one even Face appears,  
And feels no Tides to change it from its place,  
No Waves to alter the fair Form it bears:  
As that unspotted Sky,  
Where Nile does want of Rain supply,  
Is free from Clouds, from Storms is ever free.  
So thy unvaryed mind was always one,  
And with such clear Serenity still shone,  
As caused thy little World to seem all temperate Zone.   

XXII.  
Let Fools their high Extraction boast,  
And Greatness, which no Travel, but their Mothers, cost.  
Let 'em extol a swelling Name,  
Which theirs by Will and Testament became;  
At best but mere Inheritance,  
As oft the Spoils as Gift of Chance.  
Let some ill-placed Repute on Scutcheons rear  
As fading as the Colours which those bear;  
And prise a painted Field,  
Which Wealth as soon as Fame can yield.  
Thou scornedst at such low Rates to purchase Worth,  
Nor couldst thou owe it only to thy Birth.  
Thy self-born Greatness was above the Power  
Of Parents to entail, or Fortune to deflower.  
Thy Soul, which like the Sun, Heaven moulded bright,  
Disdained to shine with borrowed Light.  
Thus from himself th' Eternal Being grew,  
And from no other 'Cause his Grandeur drew.   

XXIII.  
However if true Nobility  
Rather in Souls than in the Blood does lie:  
If from thy better part we Measures take,  
And that the Standard of our Value make,  
Jewels and Stars become low Heraldry  
To blazon thee.  
Thy Soul was big enough to pity Kings,  
And looked on Empires as poor humble things.  
Great as his boundless Mind,  
Who thought himself in one wide Globe confined,  
And for another pined.  
Great as that Spirit whose large Powers roll  
Through the vast Fabric of this spacious Bowl,  
And tell the World as well as Man can boast a Soul.   

XXIV.  
Yet could not this an Haughtiness beget,  
Or thee above the common Level set.  
Pride, whose Alloy does best Endowments mar,  
(As things most lofty smaller still appear)  
With thee did no Alliance bear.  
Low Merits oft are by too high Esteem belied,  
Whose Owners lessen while they raise their Price;  
Thine were above the very Gild of Pride,  
Above all others, and thy own Hyperbole:  
In thee the wid'st Extremes were joined  
The loftiest, and the lowliest Mind.  
Thus though some part of heavens vast Round  
Appear but low, and seem to touch the Ground,  
Yet 'tis well known almost to bond the Spheres,  
'Tis truly held to be above the Stars.   

XXV.  
While thy brave Mind preserved this noble Frame,  
Thou stoodst at once secure  
From all the Flattery and Obloquy of Fame,  
It's rough and gentler Breath were both to thee the same:  
Nor this could thee exalt, nor that depress thee lower;  
But thou from thy great Soul on both look'dst down  
Without the small concernment of a Smile or Frown.  
Heaven less dreads that it should fired be  
By the weak flitting Sparks that upwards fly,  
Less the bright Goddess of the Night  
Fears those loud howl that revile her Light  
Than thou Malignant Tongues thy Worth should blast,  
Which was too great for Envy's Cloud to overcast.  
'Twas thy brave Method to despise Contempt,  
And make what was the Fault the Punishment,  
What more Assaults could weak Detraction raise,  
When thou couldst Saint disgrace,  
And turn Reproach to Praise.  
So Clouds which would obscure the Sun, oft gilded be,  
And Shades are taught to shine as bright as he.  
So Diamonds, when envious Night  
Would shroud their Splendour, look most bright,  
And from its Darkness seem to borrow Light.   

XXVI.  
Had Heaven composed thy mortal Frame,  
Free from Contagion as thy Soul or Fame:  
Can Virtue been but Proof against Death's Arms,  
thou'dst stood unvanquished by these Harms,  
Safe in a Circle made by thy own Charms.  
Fond Pleasure, whose soft Magic oft beguiles  
Raw unexperienced Souls,  
And with smooth Flattery cajoles,  
Can ne'er ensnare thee with her Wiles,  
Or make thee Captive to her soothing Smiles.  
In vain that Pimp of Vice assayed to please,  
In hope to draw thee to its rude Embrace.  
Thy Prudence still that Siren passed  
Without being pinioned to the Mast:  
All its Attempts were ineffectual found;  
Heaven fenced thy heart with its own Mound,  
And forced the Tempter still from that forbidden Ground.   

XXVII.  
The mad Capriccios of the doting Age  
Can ne'er in the same Frenzy thee engage;  
But moved thee rather with a generous Rage.  
Gallants, who their high Breeding prize,  
Known only by their Gallanture and Vice,  
Whose Talon is to court a fashionable Sin,  
And act some fine Transgression with a janty Mien,  
May by such Methods hope the Vogue to win.  
Let those gay Fops who deem  
Their Infamies Accomplishment,  
Grow scandalous to get Esteem;  
And by Disgrace strive to be eminent.  
Here thou disdainest the common Road,  
Nor wouldst by ought be wooed  
To wear the vain Iniquities o'th' Mode.  
Vice with thy Practice did so disagree,  
Thou scarce couldst bear it in thy Theory.  
Thou didst such Ignorance 'bove Knowledge prize,  
And here to be unskilled, is to be wise.  
Such the first Founders of our Blood,  
While yet untempted, stood  
Contented only to know Good.   

XXVIII.  
Virtue alone did guide thy Actions here,  
Thou by no other Card thy Life didst steer:  
No sly Decoy would serve,  
To make thee from its rigid Dictates swerve,  
Thy Love ne'er thought her worse  
Because thou hadst so few Competitors.  
Thou couldst adore her when adored by none  
Content to be her Votary alone:  
When 'twas proscribed the unkind World  
And to blind Cells, and Grottoes hurled,  
When thought the Fantom of some crazy Brain,  
Fit for grave Anchorets to entertain,  
A thin Chimaera, whom dull Gownsmen frame  
To gull deluded Mortals with an empty Name.   

XXIX.  
Thou own'dst no Crimes that shunned the Light,  
Whose Horror might thy Blood affright,  
And force it to its known Retreat.  
While the pale Cheeks do Penance in their White,  
And tell that Blushes are too weak to expiate:  
Thy Faults might all be on thy Forehead wore,  
And the whole World thy Confessor.  
Conscience within still kept Assize,  
To punish and deter Impieties:  
That inbred Judge, such strict Inspection bore,  
So traversed all thy Actions over;  
Th' Eternal Judge could scarce do more:  
Those little Escapades of Vice,  
Which pass the Cognizance of most  
I'th' Crowd of following Sins forgot and lost,  
Can ne'er its Sentence or Arraignment miss:  
Thou didst prevent the young desires of ill,  
And them in their first Motions kill:  
The very thoughts in others unconfined  
And lawless as the Wind,  
Thou couldst to Rule and Order bind.  
They durst not any Stamp, but that of Virtue bear,  
And free from stain as thy most public Actions were.  
Let wild Debauchees hug their darling Vice,  
And court no other Paradise,  
Till want of Power  
Bids 'em discard the stolen Amour,  
And when disabled Strength shall force  
A short Divorce,  
Miscall that weak forbearance Abstinence,  
Which wise Morality and better Sense  
Styles but at best a sneaking Impotence.  
Thine far a Nobler Pitch did fly  
'Twas all free choice, nought of Necessity.  
Thou didst that puny Soul disdain  
Whose half strain Virtue only can restrain;  
Nor wouldst that empty Being own,  
Which springs from Negatives alone,  
But truly thoughtst it always Virtues Skeleton.   

XXX.  
Nor didst thou those mean Spirits more approve,  
Who Virtue, only for its Dowry love,  
Unbribed thou didst her sterling self espouse:  
Nor wouldst a better Mistress choose.  
Thou couldst Affection to her bare Idoea pay,  
The first that e'er caressed her the Platonic way.  
To see her in her own Attractions dressed,  
Did all thy Love arrest,  
Nor lacked there new Efforts to storm thy Breast.  
Thy generous Loyalty  
Would ne'er a Mercenary be,  
But chose to serve her still without a Livery.  
Yet wast thou not of Recompense debarred,  
But countedst Honesty it's own Reward;  
Thou didst not wish a greater Bliss t' accrue,  
For to be good to thee was to be happy too,  
That secret Triumph of thy Mind,  
Which always thou in doing well didst find,  
Were Heaven enough, were there no other Heaven designed.   

XXXI.  
What Virtues few possess but by Retail  
In gross could thee their Owner call;  
They all did in thy single Circle fall.  
Thou wast a living System where were wrote  
All those high Morals which in Books are sought.  
Thy Practice did more Virtues share  
Than heretofore the learned Porch e'er knew,  
Or in the Stagyrites scant Ethics grew:  
Devout thou wast as holy Hermits are,  
Which share their time 'twixt Ecstasy and Prayer.  
Modest as Infant Roses in their bloom,  
Which in a Blush their Lives consume,  
So  the Dead are only more,  
Who lie divorced from Objects, and from Power.  
So pure, that if blessed Saints could be  
Taught Innocence, they'd gladly learn of thee.  
Thy Virtue's height in Heaven alone could grow  
Nor to aught else would for Accession owe:  
It only now's more perfect than it was below.   

XXXII.  
Hence, tho' at once thy Soul lived here and there,  
Yet Heaven alone its Thoughts did share;  
It owned no home, but in the active Sphere.  
Its Motions always did to that bright Centre roll,  
And seemed t' inform thee only on Parole.  
Look how the Needle does to its dear North incline,  
As were't not fixed it would to that Region climb;  
Or mark what hidden force  
Bids the Flame upwards take its course,  
And makes it with that Swiftness rise,  
As if'twere winged by th' Air through which it flies.  
Such a strong Virtue did thy Inclinations bend,  
And made 'em still to the blessed Mansions tend.  
That mighty Slave whom the proud Victor's Rage  
Shut Prisoner in a golden Cage,  
Condemned to glorious Vassalage,  
Ne'er longed for dear Enlargement more,  
Nor his gay Bondage with less patience bore,  
Than this great Spirit brooked its tedious Stay,  
While fettered here in brittle Clay,  
And wished to disengage and fly away.  
It vexed and chafed, and still desired to be  
Released to the sweet Freedom of Eternity.   

XXXIII.  
Nor were its Wishes long unheard,  
Fate soon at its desire appeared.  
And straight for an Assault prepared.  
A sudden and a swift Disease  
First on thy Heart Life's chiefest Fort does seize,  
And then on all the Suburb-vitals preys:  
Next it corrupts thy tainted Blood,  
And scatters Poison through its purple Flood.  
Sharp Aches in thick Troops it sends,  
And Pain, which like a Rack the Nerves extends.  
Anguish through every Member flies,  
And all those inward Gemonieses  
Whereby frail Flesh in Torture dies.  
All the stayed Glories of thy Face,  
Where sprightly Youth lay checked with manly Grace,  
Are now impaired,  
And quite by the rude hand of Sickness marred.  
Thy Body where due Symmetry  
In just proportions once did lie,  
Now hardly could be known,  
It's very Figure out of Fashion grown;  
And should thy Soul to its old Seat return,  
And Life once more adjourn,  
'Twould stand amazed to see its altered Frame,  
And doubt (almost) whether its own Carcase were the same.   

XXXIV.  
And here thy Sickness does new matter raise  
Both for thy Virtue and our Praise;  
'Twas here thy Picture looked most neat,  
When deep'st in Shades 'twas set,  
Thy Virtues only thus could fairer be  
Advantaged by the Foil of Misery.  
Thy Soul which hastened now to be enlarged,  
And of its grosser Load discharged,  
Began to act above its wont rate,  
And gave a Prelude of its next unbodyed State.  
So dying Tapers near their Fall,  
When their own Lustre lights their Funeral,  
Contract their Strength into one brighter Fire,  
And in that Blaze triumphantly expire,  
So the bright Globe that rules the Skies,  
Tho' he gilled Heaven with a glorious Rise,  
Reserves his choicest Beams to grace his Set;  
And then he looks most great,  
And then in greatest Splendour dies.   

XXXVI.  
Thou sharpest Pains didst with that Courage bear,  
And still thy Looks so unconcerned didst wear:  
Beholders seemed more indisposed than thee;  
For they were sick in Effigy.  
Like some well-fashioned Arch thy Patience stood,  
And purchased Firmness from its greater Load.  
Those Shapes of Torture, which to view in Paint  
Would make another faint;  
Thou couldst endure in true Reality,  
And feel what some could hardly bear to see.  
Those Indians who their Kings by Tortures chose,  
Subjecting all the Royal Issue to that Test  
Can ne'er thy Sway refuse,  
If he deserves to reign that suffers best.  
Had those fierce Savages thy Patience viewed,  
Thou'dst claimed their Choice alone;  
They with a Crown had paid thy Fortitude,  
And turned thy Deathbed to a Throne.   

XXVII.  
All those Heroic Piety's,  
Whose Zeal to Truth made them its Sacrifice:  
Those nobler Scaevola's, whose holy Rage  
Did their whole selves in cruel Flames engage,  
Who did amidst their Force unmoved appear,  
As if those Fires but lambent were;  
Or they had found their Empyreum there.  
Might these repeat again their Days beneath,  
They'd seen their Fates out-acted by a natural Death,  
And each of them to thee resign his Wreath.  
In spite of Weakness and harsh Destiny,  
To relish Torment, and enjoy a Misery:  
So to caress a Doom,  
As make its Sufferings Delights become:  
So to triumph o'er Sense and thy Disease,  
As amongst Pains to revel in soft Ease:  
These Wonders did thy Virtue's worth enhance,  
And Sickness to dry Martyrdom advance.   

XXXVIII.  
Yet could not all these Miracles stern Fate avert,  
Or make't without the Dart.  
Only she paused a while with Wonder struck,  
A while she doubted if that Destiny was thine,  
And turned over again the dreadful Book,  
And hoped she had mistake;  
And wished she might have cut another Line.  
But dire Necessity  
Soon cried 'twas thee,  
And bade her give the fatal Blow.  
Straight she obeys, and straight the vital Powers grow  
Too weak to grapple with a stronger Foe,  
And now the feeble Strife forgo.  
Life's sapped Foundation every Moment sinks,  
And every Breath to lesser compass shrinks;  
Last panting Gasps grow weaker each Rebound,  
Like the faint Tremble of a dying Sound:  
And doubtful Twilight hovers o'er the Light,  
Ready to usher in Eternal Night.   

XXXIX.  
Yet here thy Courage taught thee to outbrave  
All the slight Horrors of the Grave:  
Pale Death's Arrest  
Ne'er shocked thy Breast;  
Nor could it in the dreadfulst Figure dressed.  
That ugly Skeleton may guilty Spirits daunt,  
When the dire Ghosts of Crimes departed haunt,  
Armed with bold Innocence thou couldst that Mormo dare,  
And on the barefaced King of Terrors stare,  
As free from all Effects as from the cause of Fear.  
Thy Soul so willing from thy Body went,  
As if both parted by Consent.  
No Murmur, no Complaining, no Delay,  
Only a Sigh, a Groan, and so away.  
Death seemed to glide with Pleasure in,  
As if in this Sense too it had lost her Sting.  
Like some well-acted Comedy Life swiftly passed,  
And ended just so still and sweet at last.  
Thou like its Actors, seemedst in borrowed Habit here beneath,  
And couldst, as easily  
As they do that, put off Mortality.  
Thou Breathedst out thy Soul as free as common Breath,  
As unconcerned as they are in a feigned Death.   

XL.  
Go happy Soul, ascend the joyful Sky,  
Joyful to shine with thy bright Company:  
Go mount the spangled Sphere,  
And make it brighter by another Star:  
Yet stop not there, till thou advance yet higher,  
Till thou art swallowed quite  
In the vast unexhausted Ocean of Delight:  
Delight, which there alone in its true Essence is,  
Where Saints keep an eternal Carnival of Bliss:  
Where the Regalios of refined Joy,  
Which fill, but never cloy,  
Where Pleasures ever growing, ever new,  
Immortal as thyself, and boundless too.  
There may'st thou learned by Compendium grow;  
For which in vain below  
We so much time, and so much pains bestow.  
There may'st thou all Ideas see,  
All wonders which in Knowledge be  
In that fair beatific mirror of the Deity.   

XLI.  
Mean while thy Body mourns in its own Dust,  
And puts on Sables for its tender Trust.  
Tho' dead, it yet retains some untouched Grace,  
Wherein we may thy Soul's fair Footsteps trace;  
Which no Disease can frighten from its wont place:  
Even its Deformities do thee become,  
And only serve to consecrate thy Doom.  
Those marks of Death which did its Surface slain  
Now hallow, not profane.  
Each Spot does to a Ruby turn;  
What soiled but now, would now adorn.  
Those Asterisks placed in the Margin of thy Skin  
Point out the nobler Soul that dwelled within:  
Thy lesser, like the greater World appears  
All over bright, all over stuck with Stars.  
So Indian Luxury when it would be trim,  
Hangs Pearls on every Limb.  
Thus amongst ancient Picts Nobility  
In Blemishes did lie;  
Each by his Spots more honourable grew,  
And from their Store a greater Value drew:  
Their Kings were known by th' Royal Stains they bore,  
And in their Skins their Ermine wore.   

XLII.  
Thy Blood where Death triumphed in greatest State,  
Whose Purple seemed the Badge of Tyrant-Fate,  
And all thy Body o'er  
Its ruling Colours bore:  
That which infected with the noxious Ill  
But lately helped to kill,  
Whose Circulation fatal grew.  
And through each part a swifter Ruin threw.  
Now conscious, it's own Murder would arraign,  
And throngs to sally out at every Vein.  
Each Drop a fedder than its native Dye puts on,  
As if in its own Blushes 'twould its Gild atone.  
A sacred Rubric does thy Carcase paint,  
And Death in every Member writes the Saint.  
So Phoebus clothes his dying Rays each Night,  
And blushes he can live no longer to give Light.   

LXIII.  
Let Fools, whose dying Fame requires to have  
Like their own Carcases a Grave,  
Let them with vain Expense adorn  
Some costly Urn,  
Which shortly, like themselves, to Dust shall turn.  
Here lacks no Carian Sepulchre,  
Which Ruin shall ere long in its own Tomb inter.  
No fond Egyptian Fabric built so high  
As if 'twould climb the Sky,  
And thence reach Immortality.  
Thy Virtues shall embalm thy Name,  
And make it lasting as the Breath of Fame.  
When frailer Brass  
Shall moulder by a quick Decrease;  
When brittle Marble shall decay,  
And to the Jaws of Time become a Prey.  
Thy Praise shall live, when Graves shall buried lie,  
Till Time itself shall die,  
And yield its triple Empire to Eternity.    

To the Memory of that worthy Gentleman, Mr. Harman Atwood. PINDARIC.  

I.  
NO, I'll no more repine at Destiny,  
Now we poor common Mortals are content to die,  
When thee, blessed Saint, we cold and breathless see,  
Thee, who if aught that's great and brave,  
Aught that is excellent might save,  
Had justly claimed Exemption from the Grave,  
And cancelled the black-irreversible Decree.  
Thou didst alone such Worth, such Goodness share  
As well deserved to be immortal here;  
Deserve a Life as lasting as the Fame thou art to wear.  
At least, why went thy Soul without its Mate?  
Why did they not together undivided go?  
So went (we're told) the famed Illustrious Two.  
(Nor could they greater Merits show,  
Although the best of Patriarches that,  
And this the best of Prophets was)  
Heaven did alive the blessed Pair translate;  
Alive they launched into Life's boundless Happiness,  
And never passed Death's straits and narrow Seas;  
Ne'er entered the dark gloomy Thoroughfare of Fate.   

II.  
Long time had the Profession under Scandal lain,  
And felt a general tho' unjust Disdain,  
An upright Lawyer Contradiction seemed,  
And was at least a Prodigy esteemed.  
If one perhaps did in an Age appear,  
He was recorded like some Blazing Star;  
And Statues were erected to the wondrous Man,  
As heretofore to the strange honest Publican.  
To thee the numerous Calling all its thanks should give,  
To thee who couldst alone its lost Repute retrieve.  
Thou the vast wide extremes didst reconcile,  
The first, almost, e'er taught it was not to beguile.  
To each thou didst distribute Right so equally,  
Even Justice might herself correct her Scales by thee.  
And none did now regret  
Her once bewailed Retreat,  
Since all enjoyed her better Deputy.  
Henceforth succeeding Time shall bear in mind,  
And Chronicle the best of all the kind:  
The best e'er since the man that gave  
Our suffering God a Grave;  
(That God who living not Abode could find,  
Tho' he the World had made, and was to save)  
Embalming him, he did embalm his Memory,  
And make it from Corruption free:  
Those Odours kindly lent perfumed the Breath of Fame,  
And fixed a lasting Fragrancy upon his Name;  
And raised it with his Saviour to an Immortality.   

III.  
Hence the stolen musty Paradox of equal Souls,  
That ancient vulgar Error of the Schools,  
Avowed by dull Philosophers and thinking Fools,  
Here might they find their feeble Arguments o'erthrown:  
Here might the grave Disputers find  
Themselves all baffled by a single Mind,  
And see one vastly larger than their own,  
Tho all of theirs were mixed in one.  
A Soul as great as e'er vouchsafed to be  
Inhabiter in low Mortality;  
As e'er th' Almighty Artist laboured to infuse,  
Through all his Mint he did the brightest choose;  
With his own Image stamped it fair,  
And bid it ever the Divine Impression wear;  
And so it did, so pure, so well,  
We hardly could believe him of the Race that fell:  
So spotless still, and still so good,  
As if it never lodged in Flesh and Blood.  
Hence conscious too, how high, how nobly born:  
It never did reproach its Birth,  
By valuing aught of base or meaner worth,  
But looked on earthly Grandeur with Contempt and Scorn.   

iv  
Like his All-great Creator, who  
Can only by diffusing greater grow:  
He made his chiefest Glory to communicate,  
And chose the fairest Attribute to imitate.  
So kind, so generous, and so free,  
As if he only lived in Courtesy.  
To be unhappy did his Pity claim,  
Only to want it did deserve the same:  
Nor lacked there other Rhetoric than Innocence and Misery.  
His unconfined unhoarded Store  
Was still the vast Exchequer of the poor;  
And whatsoe'er in pious Acts went out  
He did in his own Inventory put:  
For well the wise and prudent Banker knew  
His Gracious Sovereign above would all repay,  
And all th' expenses of his Charity defray;  
And so he did, both Principal and Interest too,  
And he by holy Prodigality more wealthy grew.  
Such, and so universal is the Influence  
Which the kind bounteous Sun does here dispense:  
With an unwearied indefatigable Race,  
He travels round the World each day,  
And visits all Mankind, and every place,  
And scatters Light and Blessings all the way.  
Tho' he each hour new Beams expend,  
Yet does he not like wasting Tapers spend.  
Tho' he ten thousand years disburse in Light,  
The boundless Stock can never be exhausted quite.   

V  
Nor was his Bounty stinted or designed,  
As theirs who only partially are kind;  
Or give where they Return expect to find:  
But like his Soul, its fair Original:  
'Twas all in all,  
And all in every part,  
Silent as his Devotion, open as his Heart.  
Bribed with the Pleasure to oblige and gratify,  
As Air and Sunshine he disposed his Kindness free,  
Yet scorned Requitals, and worse hated Flattery,  
And all obsequious Pomp of vain formality.  
Thus the Almighty Bounty does bestow  
Its Favours on our undeserving Race below;  
Conferred on all its loyal Votaries;  
Conferred alike on its rebellious Enemies.  
To it alone our All we own,  
All that we are and are to be,  
Each Art and Science to its Liberality,  
And this same trifling jingling thing called Poetry.  
Yet the great Donor does no costly Gratitude require,  
No Charge of Sacrifice desire;  
Nor are w' expensive Hecatombs to raise,  
As heretofore,  
To make his Altars float with reeking Gore.  
A small Return the mighty Debt and Duty pays,  
Even the cheap humble Offering of worthless Thanks and Praise.   

iv  
But how, blessed Saint, shall I thy numerous Virtue's sum,  
If one or two take up this room?  
To what vast Bulk must the full Audit come?  
As that bold Hand that drew the fairest Deity,  
Had many naked Beauties by,  
And took from each a several Grace, and Air, and Line,  
And all in one Epitome did join  
To paint his bright Immortal in a Form Divine:  
So must I do to frame thy Character.  
I'll think whatever Men can good and lovely call,  
And then abridge it all,  
And crowd, and mix the various Idaea's there;  
And yet at last of a just Praise despair,  
Whatever ancient Worthies boast,  
Which made themselves and Poets their Describers great,  
From whence old Zeal did Gods and Shrines create;  
Thou hadst thyself alone engrossed,  
And all their scattered Glories in thy Soul did meet:  
And future Ages, when they eminent Virtues see,  
(If any after thee  
Dare the Pretence of Virtue own,  
Without the Fear of being far outdone)  
Shall count 'em all but Legacy,  
Which from the Strength of thy Example flow,  
And thy fair Copy in a less correct Edition show.   

VII.  
Religion over all did a just Conduct claim,  
No false Religion which from Custom came,  
Which to its Font and Country only owed its Name:  
No Issue of devout and zealous Ignorance,  
Or the more dull Effect of Chance;  
But 'twas a firm well-grounded Piety,  
That knew all that it did believe, and why;  
And for the glorious Cause durst die,  
And durst out-suffer ancient Martyrology.  
So knit and interwoven with its being so,  
Most thought it did not from his Duty, but his Nature flow.  
Exalted far above the vain small Attacks of Wit,  
And all that vile gay lewd Buffoons can bring,  
Who try by little Railleries' to ruin it,  
And jeered into an unreguarded poor defenceless thing,  
The Men of Sense who in Confederacy join  
To damn Religion, had they viewed but thine,  
They'd have confessed it pure, confessed it all divine,  
And free from all Pretences of Imposture or Design.  
Powerful enough to counter-act lewd Poets and the Stage,  
And Proselyte as fast as they debauch the Age;  
So good, it might alone a guilty condemned World reprieve,  
Should a destroying Angel stand  
With brandished Thunder in his Hand,  
Ready the bidden Stroke to give;  
Or a new Deluge threaten this and every Land.   

VIII.  
Religion once a quiet and a peaceful Name,  
Which all the Epithets of Gentleness did claim,  
Late proved the Source of Faction and intestine Jars:  
Like the Fair teeming Hebrew, she  
Did travel with a wrangling Progeny,  
And harboured in her Bowels Feuds and Civil Wars.  
Surly, uncomplaisant, and rough she grew,  
And of a soft and easy Mistress turned a Shrew.  
Passion and Anger went for marks of Grace,  
And looks deformed and sullen sanctified a Face.  
Thou first its meek and primitive Temper didst restore,  
First showd'st how men were pious heretofore:  
The gall-less Dove, which otherwhere could find no Rest,  
Early retreated to its Ark, thy Breast,  
And strait the swelling Waves decreased  
And strait tempestuous Passions ceased,  
Like Winds and Storms where some fair Halcyon builds her Nest.  
No overheating Zeal did thee inspire,  
But 'twas a kindly gentle Fire,  
To warm, but not devour,  
And only did refine, and make more pure:  
Such is that Fire that makes thy present blessed Abode  
The Residence and Palace of our God.  
And such was that bright unconsuming Flame,  
So mild, so harmless and so tame,  
Which heretofore i'th' Bush to Moses came:  
At first the Vision did the wondering Prophet scare,  
But when the voice had checked his needless Fear,  
He bowed and worshipped and confessed the Deity was there.   

IX.  
Hail Saint Triumphant! hail heavens happy Guest.  
Hail new Inhabitant amongst the blessed!  
Methinks I see kind Spirits in convoy meet,  
And with loud Welcomes thy Arrival greet.  
Who, could they grieve, would go with Grief away  
To see a Soul more white, more pure than they:  
By them thou'rt led on high  
To the vast glorious Apartment of the Deity.  
Where circulating Pleasures make an endless Round  
To which scant Time or Measure sets not Bound,  
Perfect unmixed Delights without Alloy,  
And whatsoe'er does earthly Bliss annoy,  
Which oft does in Fruition Pall and oftener Cloy:  
Where Being is no longer Life but Ecstasy,  
But one long Transport of unutterable Joy.  
A Joy above the boldest flights of daring verse,  
And all a Muse unglorifyed can fancy or rehearse:  
There happy Thou  
From Troubles and the bustling toil of Business free,  
From noise and tracas of tumultuous Life below,  
Enjoyest the still and calm Vacation of Eternity.   
FINIS.