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On the DEATH of a Young GENTLEMAN.


ITH joy, bleft youth, we faw thee reach thy goal;

Fair was thy frame, and beautiful thy foul;
The Graces and the Mufes came combin'd,
These to adorn the body, those the mind;
'Twas there we faw the fofteft manners meet,
Truth, sweetness, judgment, innocence, and wit.
So form'd, he flew his race; 'twas quickly won;
'Twas but a ftep, and finifh'd when begun.
Nature herself surpriz'd would add no more,
His life compleat in all its parts before;
But his few years with pleafing wonder told,
By virtues, not by days; and thought him old.
So far beyond his age those virtues ran,
That in a boy fhe found him more than man.
For years let wretches importune the skies,
Till, at the long expence of anguish wife,
They live, to count their days by miseries.
Those win the prize, who fooneft run the race,
And life burns brightest in the shortest space.
So to the convex-glafs embody'd run,
Drawn to a point the glories of the fun;
At once the gathering beams intenfely glow,
And through the ftreighten'd circle fiercely flow:
In one ftrong flame confpire the blended rays,
Run to a fire, and croud into a blaze.




From a GREEK ODE of Mr. MASTER'S, formerly of New College.



O more of earthly fubjects fing,
To heaven, my Mufe, afpire;
To raise the fong, charge every ftring,
And ftrike the living lyre.
Begin; in lofty numbers show
Th' Eternal King's unfathom'd love,
Who reigns the fovereign God above,
And fuffers on the crofs below.
Prodigious pile of wonders! rais'd too high.
For the dim ken of frail mortality.

What numbers fhall I bring along!
From whence fhall I begin the fong?
The mighty mystery I'll fing infpir'd
Beyond the reach of human wisdom wrought,
Beyond the compass of an angel's thought,
How by the rage of man his God expir'd.
I'll make the trackless depths of mercy known,
How to redeem his foe God render'd up
his Son;
I'll raife my voice to tell mankind
The victor's conqueft o'er his doom,


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How in the grave he lay confin'd,
To feal more fure the ravenous tomb.
Three days th' infernal empire to fubdue,
He pafs'd triumphant through the coafts of woe;
With his own dart the tyrant Death he flew,
And led hell captive through her realms below.

A mingled found from Calvary I hear,
And the loud tumult thickens on my ear,
"The fhouts of murderers that infult the flain,
The voice of torment and the fhrieks of pain.
I caft my eyes with horror up
To the curft mountain's guilty top;

See there! whom hanging in the midst I view !
Ah! how unlike the other two!

I fee him high above his foes,

And gently bending from the wood
His head in pity down to thofe,
Whofe guilt confpires to shed his blood.
His wide-extended arms I fee,
Transfix'd with nails, and faften'd to the tree.

Man! fenfelefs man! canft thou look on ?
Nor make thy Saviour's pains thy own.
The rage of all thy grief exert,
Rend thy garments and thy heart:
Beat thy breaft, and grovel low,

Beneath the burden of thy woe;

Bleed through thy bowels, tear thy hairs,

Breathe gales of fighs, and weep a flood of tears.


Behold thy king with purple cover'd round,
Not in the Tyrian tinctures dy'd,
Nor dipt in poifon of Sidonian pride,
But in his own rich blood that streams from every
Doft thou not fee the thorny circle red?
The guilty wreath that blushes round his head ?
And with what rage the bloody fcourge apply'd,
Curls round his limbs, and ploughs into his fide?


At fuch a fight let all thy anguish rise, Break the fountains of thy eyes. break up, up Here bid thy tears in gushing torrents flow, Indulge thy grief, and give a loose to woe. Weep from thy foul, till earth be drown'd, Weep, till thy forrows drench the ground. Canft thou, ungrateful man! his torments fee, Nor drop a tear for him, who pours his blood for thee?


In the Year 1720.


ETURN, aufpicious prince, again,
Nor let Britannia mourn in vain;
Too long, too long, has fhe deplor'd
Her abfent father and her lord.

To bend her gracious monarch's mind,
She fends her fighs in every wind:
Can Britain's prayer be thrown aside ?
And that the first he e'er deny'd!


Yet, mighty prince, vouchsafe to smile,
Return and bless our longing isle;
Though fond Germania begs thy stay,
And courts thee from our eyes away.
Though Belgia would our king detain,
We know she begs and pleads in vain ;
We know our gracious king prefers
Britania's happiness to her's.

And lo! to fave us from defpair,
At length he liftens to our prayer.
Dejected Albion's vows he hears,
And haftes to dry her falling tears.
He hears his anxious people pray,
And loudly call their king away,
Once more their longing eyes to bleís,
And guard their freedom and their peace.

They know, while Brunfwick fills the throne,
The seasons glide with pleasure on ;
The British suns improve their rays,
Adorn, and beautify the days.
But fee the royal vessel flies,
Leffening to Belgia's weeping eyes:
She proudly fails for Albion's fhores,
Guard her, ye Gods, with all your powers.

O fea, bid every wave fubfide,

And teach allegiance to thy tide;

Thy billows in fubjection keep,
And own the monarch of the deep.



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