'Tis fin produces death; and he had none
But the taint Adam left on every fon.
He added not, he was so pure, so good,
'Twas but th' original forfeit of his blood:
And that so 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 so 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 soon;
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 dispers'd, but does not all expire;
The sparkles 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.
VOL. II.
Upon young Mr. ROGERS of Gloucestershire.
OF gentle blood, his parents only treafure,
Adorn'd with features, virtues, wit, and grace,
A large provifion 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 shun delay,
He leap'd o'er age, and took the shortest way.
Their Iafting forrow, and their vanish'd pleasure,
On the DEATH of Mr. PURCELL.
Set to Music by Dr. BLOw.
ARK how the lark and linnet fing:
With rival notes
They strain their warbling throats,
To welcome in the spring.
But in the close of night,
When Philomel begins her heavenly lay,
They cease their mutual spite,
Drink in her music with delight,
And listening filently obey.
So ceas'd the rival crew, when Purcell came;
They sung no more, or only sung his fame :
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 sent 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.
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 secure, and linger out your days;
The gods are pleas'd alone with Purcell's lays,
Nor know to mend their choice.
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 cost, Here fadly fumming, what he had, and lost.
Come, virgins, ere in equal bands ye join
Come first, and offer at her facred shrine;
Pray but for half the virtues of this wife,
Compound for all the rest, with longer life;
And with your vows, like hers, may be return'd,
So lov'd when living, and when dead fo mourn'd..
Epitaph on Sir PALMES FAIREONE'S Tomb in
Westminster-Abbey.
Sacred to the immortal memory of Sir PALMES FAIR-
BONE, Knight, Governor of Tangier; in execution
of which command, he was mortally wounded by a
Whot from the Moors, then befieging the town, in the
forty-fixth year of his age, October 24, 1680.
Y
E facred relics, which your marble keep,.
Here, undisturb'd by wars, in quiet fleep :
Discharge the truft, which, when it was below,
Fairbone's undaunted foul did undergo,
And be the town's Palladium from the foe.
Alive and dead these walls he will defend':
Great actions great examples must attend.
The Candian fiege his early valour knew,
Where Turkish blood did his young hands imbrue.
From thence returning with deferv'd applaufe,
Against the Moors his well-flesh'd sword he draws;
The fame the courage, and the fame the caufe.
His youth and age, his life and death, combine,
As in fome great and regular design,
All of a piece throughout, and all divine.
Still nearer heaven his virtues shone more bright,
Like rifing flames expanding in their height;
The martyr's glory crown'd the foldier's fight.
More bravely British general never fell,
Nor general's death was e'er reveng'd so well;
Which his pleas'd eyes beheld before their close,
Follow'd by thoufand victims of his foes.
To his lamented lofs for time to come
His pious widow confecrates this tomb.
Under Mr. MILTON'S Picture, before his
HREE Poets, in three distant ages born,
Greece, Italy, and England did adorn.
The first, in loftiness of thought furpass'd;
The next, in majesty; in both the last.
The force of nature could no further go;
To make a third, the join'd the former two.
On the MONUMENT of a fair Maiden Lady, who died at Bath, and is there interred.
ELOW this marble monument is laid
All that heaven wants of this celestial maid.
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