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Yet with becoming grief he bore his part,
Refign'd his fon, but not refign'd his heart.
Patient as Job; and may he live to fee,
Like him, a new increasing family!
DAMON.

Such is my wifh, and fuch my prophesy.
For yet, my friend, the beauteous mould remains ;
Long may the exercife her fruitful pains!

But, ah! with better hap, and bring a race
More lafting, and endued with equal grace!
Equal fhe may, but farther none can go:
For he was all that was exact below.

MENAL CAS.

Damon, behold yon breaking purple cloud; Hear'st thou not hymns and fongs divinely loud? There mounts Amyntas; the young cherubs play About their godlike mate, and fing him on his way. He cleaves the liquid air, behold he flies, And every moment gains upon the skies. The new-come guest admires th' ætherial ftate, The fapphire portal, and the golden gate; And now admitted in the fhining throng, He fhows the paffport which he brought along. His paffport is his innocence and grace, Well known to all the natives of the place.

Now fing, ye joyful angels, and admire

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Your brother's voice that comes to mend your quire : Sing you, while endless tears our eyes bestow;

For like Amyntas none is left below.

On

VI.

On the Death of a very young Gentleman.

HE who could view the book of destiny,

And read whatever there was writ of thee,
O charming youth, in the first opening page,
So many graces in fo green an age,

Such wit, fuch modefty, fuch ftrength of mind,
A foul at once fo manly, and fo kind;

Would wonder, when he turn'd the volume o'er,
And after fome few leaves fhould find no more,
Nought but a blank remain, a dead void space,
A ftep of life that promis'd fuch a race.

We must not, dare not think, that heaven began
A child, and could not finish him a man ;
Reflecting what a mighty ftore was laid
Of rich materials, and a model made:
The coft already furnish'd; fo bestow'd,
As more was never to one foul allow'd:
Yet, after this profusion spent in vain,
Nothing but mouldering ashes to remain,
I guess not, left I fplit upon the shelf,
Yet, durft I guess, heaven kept it for himself;
And giving us the ufe, did foon recal,
Ere we could fpare, the mighty principal.
Thus then he disappear'd, was rarify'd;
For 'tis improper speech to say he dy'd:
He was exhal'd; his great Creator drew
His fpirit, as the fun the morning dew.

'Tis

'Tis fin produces death; and he had none
But the taint Adam left on every fon.

He added not, he was fo pure, fo good,
'Twas but th' original forfeit of his blood:
And that fo little, that the river ran

More clear than the corrupted fount began.
Nothing remain❜d of the first muddy clay;
The length of course had wash'd it in the way:
So deep, and yet fo clear, we might behold
The gravel bottom, and that bottom gold.

As fuch we lov'd, admir'd, almost ador'd,
Gave all the tribute mortals could afford,
Perhaps we gave fo much, the powers above
Grew angry at our fuperftitious love:
For when we more than human homage pay,
The charming cause is justly snatch'd away.

Thus was the crime not his, but ours alone:
And yet we murmur that he went too foon;
Though miracles are short and rarely shown.
Hear then, ye mournful parents, and divide
That love in many, which in one was ty'd.
That individual bleffing is no more,
But multiply'd in your remaining store.
The flame 's difpers'd, but does not all expire;
The fparkles blaze, though not the globe of fire.
Love him by parts, in all your numerous race,
And from those parts form one collected grace;
Then, when you have refin'd to that degree, '
Imagine all in one, and think that one is he.

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Upon

VII.

Upon young Mr. ROGERS of Gloucestershire.
F gentle blood, his parents only treasure,

OF

Their lafting forrow, and their vanifh'd pleasure, Adorn'd with features, virtues, wit, and grace,

A large provision for so short a race;

More moderate gifts might have prolong'd his date,
Too early fitted for a better state;

But, knowing heaven his home, to fhun delay,
He leap'd o'er age, and took the shortest way.

VIII.

On the DEATH of Mr. PURCELL.

MA

Set to Mufic by Dr. BLow.

I.

ARK how the lark and linnet fing:
With rival notes

They ftrain their warbling throats,

To welcome in the fpring.

But in the clofe of night,

When Philomel begins her heavenly lay,

They cease their mutual fpite,

Drink in her mufic with delight,

And liftening filently obey.

II.

So ceas'd the rival crew, when Purcell came;
They fung no more, or only fung his fame :

Struck

Struck dumb, they all admir'd the godlike man:

The godlike man,

Alas! too foon retir'd,

As he too late began.

We beg not hell our Orpheus to restore :

Had he been there,

Their fovereign's fear

Had fent him back before.

The power of harmony too well they knew:
He long ere this had tun'd their jarring sphere,
And left no hell below.

III.

The heavenly choir, who heard his notes from high, Let down the scale of music from the sky:

They handed him along,

And all the way he taught, and all the way they fung.
Ye brethren of the lyre, and tuneful voice,
Lament his lot; but at your own rejoice :
Now live fecure, and linger out your days;`
The gods are pleas'd alone with Purcell's lays,
Nor know to mend their choice.

F

IX.

EPITAPH on the Lady WHITMORE. AIR, kind, and true, a treasure each alone, A wife, a mistress, and a friend in one, Reft in this tomb, rais'd at thy husband's coft, Here fadly fumming, what he had, and loft.

O 2

1

Come,

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