THE Mourning Swain: A FUNERAL ECLOGUE, HUMBLY Offered to the MEMORY Of the Right Honourable JAMES, EARL of ABINGDON.  
Written by Mr. ROBERT GOULD.  
AND Dedicated to His Grace the Duke of Leeds.  
LONDON: Printed for the Author, and Sold by John Nutt, near Stationer's-Hall. 1700.   

To His Grace the Duke of LEEDS, etc.  

THe Sun almost an Annual Race has run,  
Since the Decease of this Prodigious Man:  
So long ago, (and such the Nation gave)  
These Faithful Tears were wept upon his Grave.  
They who can see when Nature sways in Chief,  
Will find 'em shed in an Extreme of Grief:  
Without her aid, in vain we strive by Art,  
To Limn a weeping Eye and bleeding Heart.  
In Private writ, in Private to the Plains,  
I thought to have confined these Rural Strains,  
An Evening Concert for the Mourning Swains;  
When on their Oaten Reeds His Name they'd raise,  
All Tuned to their departed Patron's Praise.  
But called from thence in Public to appear,  
(My self by being Worthless, fenced from Fear)  
I fly to YOU with this Illustrious Name,  
To stand between Detraction and his Fame.  
With Merit, Envy ever did commence.  
And Vice is still suppressing Excellence;  
Like feeble Eyes, that eat the Glaring Light,  
' Twoved cover what it cannot bear in Night.   

Your nearness to the HERO in His Blood,  
And the yet nearer Tie of being Good;  
Your joint Endeavours, and Your joint Success,  
In labouring for Your Country's Happiness;  
Your Mutual Friendship, with such Concord knit,  
That Love ne'er made so dear a Union yet;  
All these Regards, makes this Address your Due:  
It can, My Lord, belong to none but YOU,  
The Honour of this Celebrated Name;  
Returned, in some degree, from whence it came,  
Guide of his Life, and Guardian of his Fame.   

Justly the Lines may safely seek, where late  
'Tis found by an affrighted tottering State:  
When to the Verge of Anarchy it drew,  
Hurried along, and all her Fears in view,  
She sighing, cast her Eyes for Aid, on YOU;  
YOU who so oft (when wandered from the way,  
And lost in Night) have led us to the Day.   

Loud was the Storm; and now, advancing nigh,  
There seemed no hope of help from Policy.  
Here Bigotry like Scylla threatening stood,  
Horrid with Wrecks, and painted over with Blood.  
There, like Charybdis, Tyranny appeared,  
Fearful to sight, and Hideous to be heard!  
And yet between 'em lay the happy Coast,  
Which either we must Make, or all be lost.  
Here 'twas (and greatlier ne'er employed before)  
Your Counsels did our Peace and Power restore,  
When they had took their leave, to come no more.   

Where does the wondrous Penetration lie?  
Or is all Nature opened to Your Eye?  
That thus YOU forward look among the Fates,  
And seem a Second Providence to States?  
For ever on Your Country's good Intent,  
YOU Foreign Ills divert, and Home prevent.  
No more an Empty Title to the Main  
Our Squadrons boast; by Your Advice they Reign.  
Europe and Africa Triumphant saw  
Our Navy Ride, and give the Ocean Law;  
While those who thought t' Invade us now retire,  
And leave their Shores to Spoil and Hostile Fire.   

If the Physician oft divert our Fate,  
By feeling how the Blood does Circulate,  
What may HE do that knows the Pulse of State?  
Be Fever, Faintness, Frenzy, the Disease,  
Or if a Lethargy the Vitals seize;  
Be it Luxurious Peace, or Lawless Might,  
Or Legislative Rage for Ravished Right;  
Be it a lessening Fame, or lessening Trade,  
The Neighbouring Strength increased, or ours decayed,  
The Remedy is certain you advise;  
And we are ne'er so Low, but then we Rise.   

And yet in spite of this unwearyed Care,  
Among us there a sort of Monsters are,  
Whose Tongues like Jews, would not their Saviour spare  
But y'are Secure, and all their Malice vain;  
Such Virtue is too rich a die to slain.   

As when a Nymph breathes on a Crystal-Glass,  
The Damps a while obscure her Beauteous Face;  
A Dimness on the fair Reflection lies,  
And sits between her Image and her Eyes:  
But soon the self-assisted Mirror's clear,  
The Envious Shades dissolve into the Air,  
And all her former lovely Lineaments appear.  
So what e'er Spite with black'ning Breath can say,  
The Lustre of your Worth does purge away,  
Breaks through the sullen Gloom, and settles Day.   

But while (alas!) the too adventurous Muse  
Ambitiously her Noble Flight pursues;  
She finds the Weight above her Power to raise,  
And sinks beneath the Pressure of Your Praise.  
A Life like Yours, a History does claim  
An ample Fabric that may hold Your Fame;  
Where an Immortal Pillar should be Graved,  
The Princes y'ave obliged, and Kingdom's saved.   

And Lo!— (for what can veil the Muse's Eyes)  
I see, methinks, a famed Historian rise,  
Impartial, Great, Elab'rate, Learned and Wise;  
One on whose Works the Graces all shall smile;  
So just a Subject claims the justest Style.  
No other but the best of Pens should show  
The Future Ages what the Present owe.   

To LEEDS, and (O too early from us torn!)  
That other Godlike Man, whose Loss we Mourn:  
Your Glory will not less Illustrious shine,  
To have His Name Immortal made with Thine.  
He shall to the succeeding Times display  
How You both stood, when hopeless of the Day,  
Rescuing th' Rights that others did betray:  
The Slaves that for Precarious Power and Place,  
To French Designs subject the British Race,  
Born to be FREE, and ne'er to be o'ercome,  
But when by a bribed S— n—— te Sold at Home.    

THE Mourning Swain: A FUNERAL ECLOGUE, ON THE Much Lamented DEATH Of the Right Honourable JAMES, Earl of ABINGDON.  Menalcas, Damon, Alexis. Menalcas. 

HE Sinks! he dies away!— Alexis! Friend!  
'Tis thy Menalcas calls!— some God descend,  
And save the Swain from an untimely End.  
Ha! he grows Paler still! O Damon! you  
Are come, as you Prophetically knew  
The Aid I wished, and what his Griefs would do!   Damon. 

I heard the broken Sobs, and faul'tring Breath,  
And Groans, like those the Wretched give in Death.  
What sad Occasion—   Menalcas. 

Ask not yet our Grief,  
But lend the Swooning Shepherd quick Relief:  
Chafe, chafe his Temples; forward gently bow  
The Body— this, or nothing else will do:  
Tho' when his Spirits to their Seat return,  
He lives to Grief, and but revives to Mourn!   Damon. 

What unforeseen and sudden stroke of Fate  
Is this, that Nature sinks beneath the Weight?  
That Life retiring, shuns th' unequal Fight,  
And if it Conquers, must overcome by Flight!   Men. 

The worst that could the wretched Youth attend:  
Bertudor's Dead! his Master, Patron, Friend!  
Bertudor! than which yet a Worthier Name  
Was e'er took up, or sounded off by Fame.  
I brought him word the Noble Soul was flown,  
And fear the fatal News has winged his Own.  
Is this to be your Image? cruel Powers!  
How are we Yours, when withering Grass and Flowers,  
Vapours and Bubbles, are so truly Ours?  
— But see! the Blood does to his Cheeks ascend,  
And labouring Life returns.— How fares my Mourning Friend?   Alexis. 

Again! Do I yet draw this hated Breath?  
And flying Life, can be but mocked with Death?  
Will not the Partial Powers that rule above  
Permit this last, best, dearest Act of Love,  
To Die, and by that Test, our Sorrows prove?  
Must we be doomed in Being to remain,  
Renewed to Grief, and but preserved for Pain?  
Ah! dear Menalcas! what an ease 'twould be,  
Could we, at Will, shake off Mortality!  
Could, with our Tears, our Lives dissolving fall,  
And Grief had long Oblivion at her call:  
But 'twill not be!— in worst Extremes, as now,  
The Soul would rest in Death, and Swoons too go,  
When struggling Nature gives us back to Woe!   Damon. 

O fatal Sounds! O endless Source of Moan!  
And is indeed the brave Bertudor gone?   Alexis. 

Did you e'er find unhappy News untrue?  
He's Dead! and I should now be Dying too!  
Ah! what for us remains (till Life is done)  
But Wrongs, Distresses, Obliquy and Moan?  
The Sheep must suffer, when the Shepherd's gone.   Menalcas. 

We all, indeed, the fatal Loss shall rue,  
Heavy to Us, but heavier yet to You:  
You were acquainted with the Hero Young,  
He knew you early, and he loved you long.   Alexis. 

He found me helpless, and of Friends bereft,  
Of Parents, and the little they had left.  
The World looked frowning on my Early Years,  
And I seemed destined by my Stars, to Cares.  
He took me, raised me, fixed me in his sight;  
By Precept and Example, kept me Right—  
But Ah! the Lamp is gone, and I am hid in Night!  
He taught me Good, then gave that good regard;  
But still, it still was short of the Reward.  
With the new day, new Favours he'd impart,  
Then make the World believe 'twas my Desert.  
And Shall? O shall this BENEFACTOR go  
And we not sing his Worth, and sigh our Woe?  
The last sad Task that Gratitude can do.  
Shall Time or Rage be suffered to efface  
The Memory of this best of British Race?  
Shall Fame amidst such Merit silent lie?  
Shall e'er the Springs that water Grief, be dry?  
No! no! while Virtue does on Earth remain,  
And Flocks and Herds feed on th' Oxonian Plain;  
While Learning there and Piety increase,  
And Truth can rest in the soft Arms of Peace:  
While there is Wealth employed to Generous Ends,  
While there are Sweets in Love, and Faith in Friends,  
So long the Muses shall his Loss deplore,  
That reigned a Golden Shower on them, and Manna to the Poor.   Damon. 

How various are the ways of Providence!  
How crooked oft they seem to Human Sense!  
He's gone! for whom there's not a Soul but Grieves,  
And yet his Foe, the Treacherous Jockney Lives:  
He Lives! (nor does degenerate from his Breed)  
That never did one Honourable Deed:  
Yet lives in prosperous Fortune, high in Trust,  
But barbarous to Desert, and plunged in Lust:  
He lives! that yet ne'er did a Loan restore,  
E'er pay a Debt, or e'er relieve the Poor:  
He lives! that would subvert the Church and State,  
And ride 'em, loaded with Despotic Weight:  
He lives! that nothing Impious e'er did shun;  
He lives! a longer race of Vice to run;  
He lives! and yet the good Bertudor's go!   Menalcas. 

If Virtue met with a so early Fate;  
Can Vice presume to hope a longer Date?  
If Temperance thus at Noon is snatched away,  
Can wild Excess expect to end the day?   Alexis. 

It does! it does! and every Wish succeeds,  
On Down it lies, and on Ambrosia feeds ';  
No inward Pang it feels, or future Reckoning dread's.  
The Best, alas! are Summoned first to go,  
Have least Success, and lest Regard below.  
The haughty mount, and on the Humble tread;  
Depress 'em Living, and Revile 'em Dead.  
Their Honours won with Blood, are from 'em torn,  
And by their Mortal Foes, insulting worn.  
No Disappointments e'er th' Unjust attend;  
The Just have God, but not Man, their Friend.  
Hence Providence is oft misunderstood,  
Scoffed by bad Men, and doubted by the Good;  
While undistinguished Right and Wrong are hurled,  
And Knave and Fool between 'em share the World!   Menalcas. 

'Tis not for Man, with a too daring Eye,  
To look into the Secrets of the Sky;  
Or if he should, in vain he strives to see  
Through the dark-woven folds of Destiny.  
As the Meridian Sun all flaming bright,  
Gazed on, confounds and quenche's Human Sight;  
So Reason fails, and sinks beneath the Weight  
Of Will, Omniscience, Providence and Fate.  
But Thou, great Soul, disburdened of thy Freight,  
Art Landed now, on another's side of Fate:  
To Thee those Distributions all are clear,  
That so perplex, and so confound us here.  
'Tis true, thus much by Reason's understood;  
Affliction is the Test that try's the Good:  
Where e'er it Visits, 'tis by Heaven's Command;  
Not shuffled out, as Vice would understand,  
With blinking Eyes, and a promiscuous Hand.  
If prosperous Fortunes are to most a Snare,  
Why not th' Afflicted God's peculiar Care?  
Exposed to black'ning Tongues, and faithless Friends,  
Only to ply their Souls for Nobler Ends:  
For Regions where we're known, and know aright,  
Where day is never to resign to Night,  
And flying Time no more can bond Delight.  
Should Pleasure here run smooth with equal Feet,  
And Life, though long, no Disappointment meet;  
Should Hope succeed in every Wish it makes,  
And Grief ne'er seize the Soul it once forsake's;  
Should every Pious Man be Fortune's Care,  
Humility be clothed, and Pride be bare;  
Should the first Honours be by Worth possessed;  
Should that still rise, and Vice be still depressed;  
What e'er hereafter more were to be given,  
We should rest here, and seek no other Heaven.  
But since this never was, nor will be so,  
Not Revelation scarce can plainer show,  
That virtue's not to wear her Crown below.  
This Contemplation should your Griefs remove;  
Our very Suffering a Reward does prove,  
It must not be on Earth— and it must be Above.   Alexis. 

With this, Menalcas, firmly I agree  
But it not lighten's our Calamity.  
Bertudor, though to endless Joy he's gone,  
Has left us cause for a whole Age to Moan.  
When great Elijah did on high ascend,  
And heavens bright Chariot his Ascent attend,  
What Joy was it to his remaining Friend?  
He, in his Loss, deplored his Country's Fate,  
Their Civil Strife's, and cruel Haz'ael's Hate;  
Nor yet is ours a fixed unmurm'ring State.  
When will deliverance from Oppression come,  
If such as He are called so early Home?  
When will our Public Fears, and Private Hate  
Be over, if thus we lose such Props of State?  
Who, when the Royal Cause is sunk so low,  
Will set so vast a Fortune at a Throw,  
And with such Skill, divert th' impending Blow?  
Who in the Gap, when Force would Right devour,  
Will stand so firm against unbounded Power?  
Stemming the Tide of violated Laws,  
Till he has made the Just, the Prosperous Cause?  
O Britain! Thou, whose Happiness He sought,  
Whose Happiness He would with Life have bought,  
Thy Peace his constant Aim, and still intending Thought;  
Let thy sad Genius now put Sables on,  
And through the Land diffuse unless'ning Moan,  
That every Eye may Weep, and every Breast may Groan!  
And thou, O Learned Town! whose Sacred Name,  
Has been so long th' envied Theme of Fame;  
Thou too, shouldst in the Mourning Concert share,  
Scarcely so much thy Guardian Angels Care.  
Who e'er before made Thee appear so Great,  
Or in thy Civil, Learned, or Martial State?  
Or who hereafter (through more Trials proved)  
Will leave Thee— so Bemoaned, and so Beloved?  
How did He Factious Fears and Doubts control!  
How still Contention! and how tune the Soul!  
How baffle Envy! and how silence Pride!  
In all Elections certain to Preside.  
Others to Heats and Strifes, and Feuds would run,  
But where he came, he made all Voices one:  
With a bare Breath, they moved as he inclined,  
Like standing Corn, all bending with the Wind.  
At once to ROYALTY and RIGHT a Friend;  
Nor did He to thy Burroughs recommend  
A needy Race, for Policy to bait,  
Like Gudgeons, catched with Pensions by the S—te.  
But while, blessed City, I'd thy HERO show,  
I rove, and make Digressions from my Woe.  
Ah never! never cease to Sigh His Name!  
So true to Honour, and so dear to Fame!  
Let all thy Sons bewail th' Exalted Man;  
And thou, Immortal Yw— ings! lead the Van:  
Thou, who new force dost to our Language give;  
He who so well can Praise, as well can Grieve.  
Ransack the silent Seat where Memory lies,  
To bring our Woes proportional Supplies:  
Let not the hoary Dews of Lethe steep  
So many Virtues in Eternal Sleep:  
But as they pass our Intellectual view,  
Let Sorrow grave 'em deep, and keep 'em new:  
Then when we have surveyed th' amazing Store,  
Make us reflect, their OWNER is no more!  
How all that's Prudent, Noble, Just, and Brave,  
Is covered with Bertudor in the Grave!  
O Thought! that on the Rack does every Nerve constrain!  
Distraction were less Grief, and Dying gentler Pain!   Menalcas. 

My dear Alexis, if that Rain must fall,  
But speak the Hero's Worth, then weep it all.   Alexis. 

It was my full Design— but first, my Friend,  
(And Weeping, I'll the sad account attend)  
Tell by what Malady he hence was torn,  
With how confused a Grief the loss was born,  
All Raving!— 'twas too little sure to Mourn;  
He had to Human sight, no lest Decay,  
Warm as a Summer's Sun's reviving Ray,  
Nor promised less than a long Summer's day;  
Fresh as the Morning, when the pearly Dew  
Foretells the bright Meridian to ensue:  
But there He stopped! there did the Gloom arise!  
Veiled with surrounding Clouds from Human Eyes!  
Eclipsed, when most conspicuous in the Skies!  
Unwillingly the Rural Shades He left;  
(Unhappy Shades! of all your Joys bereft!)  
Never in Senate He denied His Aid;  
This only only Time, He would have stayed;  
But 'twas His Country called,— whose call He still Obeyed.  
— But I prevent Thee, dear Menalcas on,  
And— if I can— I'll Stifle in my Moan.   Menalcas. 

To tell you true (who e'er it may displease)  
He died of the Physician— a Disease  
That long has reigned, and eager of Renown,  
More than a Plague, Depopulate's the Town.  
Inflamed with Wine, and blasting at a Breath,  
All its Prescriptions are Receipts for Death.  
Millions of Mischiefs by its Rage is wrought,  
Safe where 'tis fled, but barbarous where 'tis sought:  
A cursed ingrateful Ill, that called to aid,  
Is still most fatal where it best is paid.  
So slight at first his Ail, it could have done  
No further harm, but must of course ' been gone,  
Had not this first Malignance forced it on;  
And cruelly (till then, all pure and good)  
With it's own Venom, dashed the Circling Flood.—  
By this time, we the Hero's Danger found;  
He near Expiring, and we Weeping round.  
The Sighs of Widows, and the Orphans Cries,  
Importunate for Aid, besieged the Skies.—  
— And now the Fevor seemed in part t' assuage;  
Death grinned a horrid Smile, and half forgot his Rage.  
As he grew better, so the Town revived,  
As Joy itself were from his Health derived.  
But whether 'twere to show, though ne'er so late,  
How fervent Prayer can turn the course of Fate;  
Or whether 'twere a last expiring Glare,  
The fatal Hope that ushers in Despair;  
Or whether yet the line of the Disease,  
Could be no further lengthened out for Fees,  
He soon relapsed, relapsing, weaker grew,  
And the pale Tyrant came again in view.  
Here Grief was at its utmost stretch disclosed!  
We all Confounded, He alone Composed.  
What Blessings did He to his Friends bequeath!  
What Joys describe, what dying Raptures breath!  
With what assurance did he meet his Fate!  
How fearless pass th' Inevitable Gate!  
His Soul had by Anticipation here,  
A taste of Heaven, before it yet was there.  
O Truth! O Innocence! O peaceful Close!  
Hail him (ye Angels) to his long Repose.  
— But now an Universal burst of Woe,  
O'er all the Town, did like a Torrent flow.  
The very Senate Mourned his early Fate,  
Mourned this ADJUSTER of the Church and State;  
As quite despairing any more to see  
RELIGION reconciled to POLICY.  
The Clergy next their PATRIOTS loss deplore,  
No more to hear his Voice! to have his Smiles no more!  
In dangerous Times they freshly called to mind,  
How different Parties in their Aid he joined;  
Then with a Grief too big to speak in Tears,  
In Silence sunk beneath their former Fears:  
For ne'er before in the most Impious Age,  
Were they pursued with such inveterate Rage,  
So Slighted by the Great, and Slandered from the Stage.  
His Friends you next might see Distracted stand,  
Too weak the Streams of Anguish to command:  
Nor Compass, Card, or Pilot, left to guide  
Thy hopeless plunge into the raging Tide.  
But theirs, and every Grief the Poor's out did,  
Tearing the very Earth up, to be hid,  
And Raving, Self-Destruction was forbid!  
A frightful Prospect they before 'em see,  
Of Wants, and unrelieved Adversity.  
Even those that knew him but by Common-Fame,  
With Tears repeat their Common Patriot's Name.  
Nor less it ought our just Regard to have,  
To think what Numbers mourned him to the Grave:  
With mutual Praise, their mutual Sighs did Vie,  
And from so many Mouths, oppressed the Sky.—  
There rest His Ashes:— but his Nobler Name,  
Expanding as it mounts the Starry Frame,  
Shall fill th' expiring Breath, and latest Gasp of Fame.   Damon. 

'Tis done, the Task you bid Menalcas do;  
His Praise, a Nobler Task, we now expect from you.   Alexis. 

That Praise, alas! should be by Angels sung,  
At least the first of the Castalian Throng:  
Not in my Numbers, broken, rough and lame,  
But Verse of the duration of his Fame,  
Such as, wherever read, should sway in Chief;  
Mine's but the Duty of a Servant's Grief:  
Tho' yet (so much my Soul His Name revere's)  
What in my Style Un-elegant appears;  
I'll Sanctify with Truth, and Polish with my Tears.  
Witness, ye everlasting Lamps above,  
Ye Sacred Lights that round us Nightly move,  
Witness how oft, when the long day was done,  
And all Devotion silent, but his own,  
We've seen him on his Knees before th'Immortal Throne.  
As if at neither Morning, Noon, and Even,  
There Hours enough to Piety were given:  
Part of the Night in Prayer He always spent;  
The Time by most, to Wine and Lewdness leaned:  
No Hypocrite e'er with more Ardour could,  
Un-seen be Ill, than He'd un-seen be Good.  
What ever doing, or where e'er he were,  
His Privacies did no Detection fear;  
We ne'er could find Him when unfit to see,  
Nor hear Him, but the Theme was Piety.  
No Faith by Works was ever oftener shown:  
If when no act of Charity is done,  
That day be lost— He never squandered one.  
As soon the Sun might cross from Pole to Pole;  
As soon the Wand'ring Planets cease to roll,  
As he dismiss the Poor without their Dole.  
No Fears, by which our Sceptics are distressed,  
E'er found the least admittance to his Breast:  
Where e'er he turned his View, Sea, Forth, and Skies,  
GOD, in his Works, was present to his Eyes.  
Unhappy they! that see this wrond'rous Frame,  
And, after, make a Doubt from whence it came!  
His Converse though 'twas cheerful, ne'er was Vain;  
His Soul would start, to hear a word Profane:  
That fatal Rock, where half our Nobles split,  
Lost for the poor Repute of having Wit:  
With such, the Virtuous are the only Elves,  
But Devils are thought Angels by themselves.  
Where once He Loved, He never could Distrust,  
Kind to a Faued, and to a Scruple Just:—  
But most, He most did fly the Snares of Lust.  
Not all the Darts thrown by the Beauteous Kind,  
That lightning like, so quick a Passage find;  
Not all their Wit, and never-ending Art,  
His once engaged Affection, could divert,  
Or melt the Chastity that Walled His Heart.  
Our Saviour's Precept, He to Practice brought,  
And never, never Lusted— not in Thought!  
And, to reward His Truth, He twice was joined  
In Wedlock, to the best of Womenkind.  
The First, the brightest, purest Soul that e'er  
Was sent from Heaven, to show us Mortals here  
What Angels and Translated Saints are there!  
To see Her once, was every Charm to know,  
Of Peace above, or Purity below;  
Imagination could no further go!  
So sweet her Form, th' Idea warms us yet!—  
But Ah! that Light in all her Glory set,  
In all her Youth (and we all drowned in Tears)  
E'er She had numbered three and thirty Years;  
Yet thirteen times had called Lucina's Aid,  
And was as oft a happy Mother made.  
His next did a like Scene of Joy Presage;  
That given to Charm his Youth, and this to Bless his Age;  
Her Mind so justly to Her Form contrived,  
The living Wife, but seemed the Dead Revived:  
No jot Impaired, or less amazing Bright,  
For her succeeding such a Glorious Light.  
A strange Eclipse had certainly been thrown,  
On any Face, or Virtue but her own.  
Here were a Subject now our Voice to raise,  
To sing at once her Sorrows and her Praise!  
A Year! but one short Year in Wedlock run,  
E'er robbed of all the Worth her Eyes had won!  
Her Eyes! a Charm that could for Ages bind,  
Were Comfort certain, or had Fate been kind.  
Ah Beauteous Widow,! could I think, when late  
The Muse did on your happy Nuptials wait,  
That such a Scene of Pleasure, Love and Light,  
So soon would close in Everlasting Night!  
That one short Year would so destructive prove  
To strictest Virtue, and to noblest Love!  
Ah! what avails our Hope, if Truth must here  
Be least, or latest Providence's Care?  
What comfort have we, towards the Goal to strive,  
If thus the Stream of Fate at Random drive?  
If all the Blessings of the Good and Fair,  
Must like a Bubble break, and end in Air!   Damon. 

You know there's none exempt from Human Cares—  
But, Friend, you lose His Virtues in your Tears.   Alexis. 

Forgive me, Damon, I've too long digressed;  
But who could hold, to see such Charms distressed?  
All Praise we own, is to his Virtue's due,  
But some regard, must wait on Beauty too:  
Even He himself would Pardon such as start,  
To give our Duty, where he He gave his Heart—  
— But to our View, His Temperance next appears,  
His fast Companion from his early Years.  
In all th' Affluence of a Wealth so vast,  
He ne'er the Common Bounds of Nature past.  
Tho' on his Board, (where all the Seasons smiled)  
What Earth could furnish, plenteously was piled;  
Tho' there the Sea a constant Tribute paid,  
And richest Wines (declining Nature's aid)  
Flowed round, as from a Spring that ne'er decayed.  
'Twas but prepared proportioned to His Store,  
To feast his Neighbours, and to feed the Poor.  
How oft would He from all his State descend?  
Then only proud, when He could serve a Friend.  
Upon His Word, you as on Fate, might rest;  
The rather, if it crossed His Interest.  
To Truth even his most trivial Thoughts did tend,  
As heavy Bodies sink, and Flames ascend.  
Even Contraries His Meekness reconciled,  
As soon as Anger touched his Breast, 'twas Mild:  
His Frowns so stern, when he did Vice reprove,  
Through His Aversion, made you see his Love:  
From most, resentment does in Hate conclude,  
But his Concern was always for your Good.  
For every turn of Human Chance prepared,  
His Virtues ne'er were missing from his Guard:  
And by a wondrous Mixture, you might find  
In him the Hero and the Christian joined;  
The Loftiest Courage, and the Lowliest Mind!  
What shall we say?— unless by Angels Penned,  
His Praises, like our Grief, can have no end.  
Nature herself, does of this WORTHY boast,  
Aloud she cries— Here was no Labour lost,  
While to their various Moulds I'd others sit,  
Ten thousand fail me, for one lucky hit.  
Hereafter, when the Nobler Souls I Frame,  
Such as shall early get a Deathless Name,  
And late pursue the shining Chase of Fame,  
They, by this PATTERN, shall be all Designed,  
And, Copying Him, Exalt the long Degraded Kind.   Mena. 

Were not your Sight subservient to your Moan,  
You would perceive it is already done:  
What Copy can you hope to see so fair,  
As that he drew in His Illustrious HEIR?  
Who is more likely Fame's now sinking blast  
To lift again as high, and make it last?  
A Noble Character, I grant, you've drawn;  
But since 'tis Darkness there, look on the Rising Dawn:  
What Promises Bertudor's Worth could give,  
Like a New Eden, all in Him revive.  
Then in our Hope, His CONSORT with Him shares,  
Born for His Ease, and softening all His Cares;  
She does the Noblest Modern Instance prove,  
Of Peace in Wedlock, and of Truth in Love.  
This Happy Pair thy Sorrows should divert;  
And never was a Nobler Work for Art.   Damon. 

Begin, Alexis, let thy tuneful Song,  
Paint Him all Lovely, Affable, and Young:  
Then let it show the vast advance His Youth  
Has made in Honour, Eloquence, and Truth;  
How none to Pleasure, e'er was less a Slave,  
More throughly Noble, nor more early Brave.  
With Him, his Generous Brothers Worth proclaim,  
Who what they own Their Birth, will pay in Fame:  
In Peace, they shall the Arts of Peace adorn,  
Or War, if they for bloody War are born.  
His Sisters, than should be Triumphant shown,  
Their Sables off, and all their Brightness on;  
Warming where e'er their happy Influence flies,  
Love in their Mien, and Conquest in their Eyes!   Menalcas. 

As justly should the Fair Carnarvon's Name  
Be handed with Her Niece's down to Fame:  
She, who by Virtue, does assert Her Blood,  
And values less Her Birth, than being Good:  
That Sister, who so much His loss deplored,  
And seemed at last, as hard to be restored:  
That Sister, who to save Him, would have Died,  
Who all His Sickness, on Her Knees would ' bide—  
Ah! could so bright a Suppli'ant be denied!  
Let not her numerous Alms be hid in Night,  
Tho Private done, and flying Human Sight:  
Nor should her Chastity thy Pen decline,  
Th' Heireditary Virtue of the Line;—  
Begin— and be thy Song as Famous, as thy Theme's Divine!   Alexis. 

Ah Friends!— I grant my Duty owing there—  
But first (ye Powers) I'll first perform it here;  
First with a bleeding Heart, and weeping Verse,  
Pay my last Homage to Bertudor's Hearse.  
That Office over, we to their Names will turn,  
There truly Praise, as here we truly Mourn.—  
— But no such Theme shall now the Muse employ,  
No thought of Comfort! nor no dream of Joy!  
Faithful to Grief, and wedded to my Moan,  
All my Relief shall be— to hope for none!—  
— Ha! Damon! where? whence came these dismal Cries?  
Shrieked out as they were Nature's Obsequies!  
As if the Gen'ral Doom just now were bid,  
And cleaving Earth were yielding up its Dead!   Mena. 

To the same Cause of Grief the Country yields;  
I spread the News through the Wiltonian Fields;  
No longer now bemoaned by Swain to Swain,  
It gathers Head, and sweeps along the Plain:  
Like an Impetuous Flood, it all overbears—  
The sadder Deluge, as 'tis made of Tears.   Alexis. 

Led on Menalcas.— This will be a Scene  
Fit to Indulge the Sorrows I am in!  
Hark! louder! How the sad affrighting Sound  
Does from the Hills, back on the Plain rebound,  
And tells us— Death can now no deeper Wound.  
The Flocks and Herds run bleeting o'er the Plains,  
And Sympathise with the Despairing Swains.  
Some dismal Tidings, heavens uncommon Rage,  
In Groans of Thunder did last Night Presage:  
The faithful Dogs in horrid Consorts Howled  
And the fierce Woolves, Un-guarded found the Fold,  
And Croaking Ravens Death and Woe foretold!  
With lightning singed, the blasted Heath is bare,  
And Horror is the sole Possessor there.—  
But let us haste and join 'em, now their Grief  
Is at the full, and hopeless of Relief:  
Bertudor is their Theme— Bertudor we  
Will cry, and Echo back their Misery.  
Bertudor! O Bertudor!— O no more!  
For ever now no more!—  
Away! and let me join the Weeping Throng,  
To hear him Mourned, to hear his Praises Sung,  
And die with the Dear NAME upon my Tongue!   
FINIS.