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ELEGIES.

AND

EPITAPHS.

I.

To the Memory of Mr. OLD HAM.

FAREWELL, too little and too lately known,

Whom I began to think, and call my own :
For fure our fouls were near allied, and thine
Caft in the fame poetic mould with mine.
One common note on either lyre did ftrike,
And knaves and fools we both adhorr'd alike.
To the fame goal did both our studies drive;
The laft fet out, the fooneft did arrive.
Thus Nifus fell upon the flippery place,

Whilft his young friend perform'd, and won the race.
O early ripe to thy abundant ftore

What could advancing age have added more?
It might (what nature never gives the young)
Have taught the smoothness of thy native tongue.
But fatire needs not thofe, and wit will fhine
Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line.
A noble error, and but seldom made,
When poets are by too much force betray'd.
VOL. II,

M

Thy

Thy generous fruits, though gather'd ere their prime, Still fhew'd a quickness; and maturing time

But mellows what we write, to the dull fweets 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.

II.

To the pious Memory of the accomplished young Lady Mrs. ANNE KILLIGREW, excellent in the two Sifter-Arts of POESY and PAINTING.

AN OD E.

I.

HOU youngest virgin-daughter of the skies,
Made in the last promotion of the bleft;
Whofe palms, new-pluck'd from paradise,
In fpreading branches more fublimely rife,
Rich with immortal green above the rest :
Whether, adopted to some neighbouring star,
Thou roll'ft above us, in thy wandering race,
Or, in proceffion fix'd and regular,
Mov'd with the heaven majestic pace;
Or, call'd to more fuperior blifs,

Thou treadft, with feraphims, the vast abyss:
Whatever happy region is thy place,

Ceafe thy celeftial fong a little space;

Thon

Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine,
Since heaven's eternal year is thine.
Hear then a mortal Mufe thy praise rehearse,
In no ignoble verfe;

But fuch as thy own voice did practise here,
When thy first fruits of Poefy were given;
To make thyself a welcome inmate there :
While yet a young probationer,

And candidate of heaven.

II.

If by traduction came thy mind,
Our wonder is the lefs to find

A foul fo charming from a stock so good;
Thy father was transfus'd into thy blood:
So wert thou born into a tuneful strain,
An early, rich, and inexhaufted vein.
But if thy pre-existing foul

Was form'd, at firft, with myriads more,
It did through all the mighty poets roll,

Who Greek or Latin laurels wore,

And was that Sappho last, which once it was before. If so, then ceafe thy flight, O heaven-born mind! Thou haft no drofs to purge from thy rich ore : Nor can thy foul a fairer manfion find,

Than was the beauteous frame fhe left behind :

Return to fill or mend the choif of thy celeftial kind. III.

May we presume to fay, that, at thy birth,

New joy was fprung in heaven, as well as here on earth.

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For fure the milder planets did combine
On thy aufpicious horofcope to fhine,
And ev'n the moft malicious were in trine.
Thy brother-angels at thy birth

Strung each his lyre, and tun'd it high,
That all the people of the sky
Might know a poetess was born on earth.

And then, if ever, mortal ears

Had heard the mufic of the fpheres.
And if no clustering swarm of bees

On thy fweet mouth distill'd their golden dew,
'Twas that such vulgar miracles

Heaven had not leisure to renew :

For all thy bleft fraternity of love

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Solemniz'd there thy birth, and kept thy holy-day above.
IV.

O gracious God! how far have we
Prophan'd thy heavenly gift of poefy?
Made prostitute and profligate the Mufe,
Debas'd to each obfcene and impious ufe,
Whose harmony was firft ordain'd above
For tongues of angels, and for hymns of love?
O wretched we! why were we hurry'd down
This lubrique and adulterate age,

(Nay added fat pollutions of our own)
T' increase the fireaming ordures of the stage?
What can we fay t' excufe our fecond fall?
Let this thy veftal, heaven, atone for all :
Her Arethufian fiream remains unfoil'd,

Unmix'd

Unmix'd with foreign filth, and undefil'd;
Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child.
V.

Art fhe had none, yet wanted none;
For nature did that want fupply:
So rich in treasures of her own,
She might our boasted stores defy:
Such noble vigour did her verse adorn,

That it feem'd borrow'd, where 'twas only born.
Her morals too were in her bofom bred,

By great examples daily fed,

What in the best of books, her father's life, fhe read.
And to be read herself fhe need not fear;

Each teft, and every light, her Muse will bear,
Though Epictetus with his lamp were there.
Ev'n love (for love fometimes her Muse exprest)
Was but a lambent flame which play'd about her breast:
Light as the vapours of a morning dream,

So cold herself, whilft fhe fuch warmth expreft,
'Twas Cupid bathing in Diana's stream.

VI.

Born to the spacious empire of the Nine,

One would have thought, fhe fhould have been content
Το
manage well that mighty government;

But what can young ambitious fouls confine?
To the next realm fhe ftretch'd her sway,
For Painture near adjoining lay,

A plenteous province, and alluring prey.
A Chamber of Dependencies was fram'd.

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