A POEM Occasioned on the Death of Mr. Henry Purcell, Late Musician in Ordinary To His MAJESTY.  
Quocunque choros agitat mors Musica dormit.  Bat. 
By a Lover of Music.  
LONDON, Printed for John Whitlock, near Stationers-Hall, MDCXCVI.   

A POEM On the Death of Mr. Henry Purcell, etc.  

I.  
YE Gentle Spheres  
Cease now your wont melody,  
Rest and ever silent be—  
Nought now remains for Comfort or Relief,  
But a free vent to our just source of grief.  
An untaught Groan best language is,  
For such a dismal Scene as This.  
Yet like the dying Swans you first may tell,  
In softest Music to attending Ears,  
How the Loved Strephon lived, and how lamented fell:  
Tell then th' admiring World how often He,  
Has even charmed you to ecstasy,  
How oft you've envied at the praise he won,  
Yet smiled to see yourselves out done.  
Tell this in different Notes, in such as he,  
Was used to charm us hear below, that make one Harmony.   

II.  
The little Birds throughout the Plains,  
Repeat their Notes in doleful Strain.  
In doleful strains they all complain  
As if they never were to Sing again.  
Sad P●●●omel amongst ●he rest  
As if some Story ●he relate,  
Not of her own, but of her Masters cruel Fate,  
In mournful Notes her grief expressed,  
In careless melancholy Lays  
She ●●ng his Praise.  
Now all her Art she tries,  
Now all her Strength applies,  
To warble forth an Elegy  
Sacred to his Memory.  
She Sings, alas her Songs are all in vain,  
Nothing can alter Destiny,  
The Swain can ne'er return to life again.   

III.  
What do I hear, what dismal Groans,  
What Sights, what Shrieks, what melancholy Moans,  
Now spread themselves o'er all the Pensive Plains,  
And tears the breasts of all the tender Swains,  
'Tis for Strephon Dead and gone.  
Mourn all ye Shepherds, mourn with me your Masters Fall,  
With me attend his Funeral,  
With me adorn his Hearse  
With never fadeing Garland, never dying Verse.  
Alas! no Sounds will now prevail,  
To tell their melancholy Tale,  
Since dead is He who made their Songs to live,  
He their dull numbers could inspire,  
With charming Voice, and tuneful Lyre,  
He life to all, but to himself could give.  
No longer now the Swains unto each other play,  
Their Arms a cross, their Heads hung down,  
Their Oaten Pipes, besides them thrown,  
Their Flocks neglected stray,  
Even Pan himself overwhelmed with grief, has thrown his Pipe away.   

IV.  
See Love himself all bathed in Tears,  
His Bow he brakes, away his Darts he flings,  
Then folds his Arms, and hangs his drooping Wings,  
Venus herself close mourner here appears.  
No longer now she thinks herself secure,  
But sighing from her Throne looks down,  
Her greatness cannot long endure  
Since its supporter's dead and gone;  
Since that the tuneful Strephon's Fallen—  
Now silent lies his Lyre,  
No longer warms our hearts into desire,  
For dead is he who could our Passions move,  
Who best could gentle thoughts inspire,  
Who best could fan the amorous fire,  
Make us at once submit, and own the Power of Love.   

V.  
Gone is the glory of our Age,  
The Pride and Darling of the Stage.  
The Theatre his worth well knew,  
Saw how by him its greatness grew.  
In him their honour Pride and Glory lived,  
Far as his Soul they now are fled,  
And scarce can sooner be retrieved,  
For all their hopes in him are dead.  
Whilst he vouchsafed to stay below  
They were too blest long to continue so.  
But oh! no more the tuneful Strephon's Songs they'll hear,  
No more his joyful Notes will glad the wondering Theatre.   

VI  
Ye Sons of Phoebus write his Elegy  
But let it be  
Great as the Subject, sad as your Calamity,  
Let every Muse his Praise aloud proclaim  
And to the distant Poles, let Echo spread his Fame.  
Write Epitaphs that so  
The world may know,  
How much to him even Poetry did owe,  
For you but say, 'tis he that makes you sing,  
His Art the Embryo words does to perfection bring.  
By us the Muse at first conceives, 'tis true,  
He makes it fit to see the light, that gift to him we owe:  
Nakeed at first and rugged they appear,  
But when by him adorned they be,  
Assume a Pomp and Bravery,  
Nor need they longer blush to reach a Prnces Ear.   

VII.  
How rigid are the Laws of Fate,  
And how severe the black Decree,  
For nothing, nothing here is free,  
But all must enter th' Adamantine Gate.  
The Great, the Good, the Just, nay all, must come,  
To Nature's dark retireing Room.  
He! he! alas is gone,  
Whose gentle Airs did make our Numbers live,  
Who Immortality could give,  
His Soul to't's first abode away is flown,  
Blasted are all our Glories now,  
Our Laurels whither as they grow,  
The Muse herself forsakes us too.  
Come then, come quickly come,  
Let's pay our tears for offerings at his Tomb.  
Let us not strive, who best deserves the Bays,  
He that grieves most, best claims the Highest Praise.   

VIII.  
Arise ye blest Inhabitants above,  
From your immortal Seats arise,  
And on our Wonder, on our Love,  
Gaze with astonished eyes;  
Arise, Arise, make room,  
The wished for shade is come;  
Hast and yourselves prepare  
To me the joyful Chorister,  
Meet him half way with Songs, such as you sing,  
Before the throne of the Eternal King,  
With welcomes let th' Aetherial Palace ring,  
Welcome the Guardian Angel says,  
Full of Songs, and full of Bays,  
Welcome thou art to me,  
And to these Regions of Serenity;  
Welcome the winged Choir resounds,  
While with loud Euges all the sacred place abounds.  
Low now above he chants Eternal Lays  
Above our wonder, and our Praise.   
FINIS.