For poets frequent inroads there had made,
And perfectly could represent

The shape, the face, with every lineament,

And all the large domains which the Dumb Sister All bow'd beneath her government,

[sway'd;

Received in triumph wheresoe'er she went.

Her pencil drew whate'er her soul design'd,

[mind.

And oft the happy draft surpass'd the image in her
The sylvan scenes of herds and flocks,
And fruitful plains and barren rocks,
Of shallow brooks that flow'd so clear,
The bottom did the top appear:
Of deeper, too, and ampler floods,
Which, as in mirrors, show'd the woods;
Of lofty trees, with sacred shades,
And pérspectives of pleasant glades,
Where nymphs of brightest form appear,
And shaggy satyrs standing near,
Which them at once admire and fear.
The ruins, too, of some majestic piece,
Boasting the power of ancient Rome or Greece,
Whose statues, friezes, columns broken lie,
And, though defaced, the wonder of the eye;
What nature, art, bold fiction e'er durst frame,
Her forming hand gave feature to the name.
So strange a concourse ne'er was seen before,
But when the peopled ark the whole creation bore.

VII.

The scene then changed: with bold erccted look Our martial king the sight with reverence strook: For not content to express his outward part, Her hand call'd out the image of his heart:

This warlike mind, his soul devoid of fear,
His high-designing thoughts were figured there,
As when, by magic, ghosts are made appear.
Our phoenix queen was portray'd too so bright,
Beauty alone could beauty take so right;
Her dress, her shape, her matchless grace,
Were all observed, as well as heavenly face.
With such a peerless majesty she stands,

As in that day she took the crown from sacred hands:
Before a train of heroines was seen,

In beauty foremost, as in rank, the queen.
Thus nothing to her genius was denied,
But like a ball of fire the farther thrown,
Still with a greater blaze she shone,
And her bright soul broke out on every side.
What next she had design'd Heaven only knows:
To such immoderate growth her conquest rose,
That fate alone its progress could oppose.

VIII.

Now all those charms, that blooming grace,
The well-proportion'd shape, and beauteous face,
Shall never more be seen by mortal eyes;
In earth the much lamented virgin lies.
Not wit, nor piety could Fate prevent;
Nor was the cruel destiny content
To finish all the murder at a blow,
To sweep at once her life, and beauty too;
But, like a harden'd felon, took a pride
To work more mischievously slow,

And plunder'd first, and then destroy'd

Oh, double sacrilege on things divine,
To rob the relic, and deface the shrine!

But thus Orinda1 died:

Heaven, by the same disease, did both translate: As equal were their souls, so equal was their fate.

IX.

Meantime her warlike brother on the seas
His waving streamers to the wind displays,
And vows for his return, with vain devotion, pays.
Ah, generous youth! that wish forbear,

The winds too soon will waft thee here:
Slack all thy sails, and fear to come,

Alas, thou know'st not thou art wreck'd at home!
No more shalt thou behold thy sister's face,
Thou hast already had her last embrace.
But look aloft, and if thou ken'st from far
Among the Pleiads a new-kindled star,
If any sparkles than the rest more bright,
"Tis she that shines in that propitious light.

X.

When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound,
To raise the nations under ground:
When in the Valley of Jehoshaphat,

The judging God shall close the book of fate :
And there the last assizes keep,

For those who wake, and those who sleep;
When rattling bones together fly,

From the four corners of the sky;

When sinews o'er the skeletons are spread,

Those clothed with flesh, and life inspires the dead;

1 Orinda :' Mrs. Catherine Philips, author of a book of poems, died, like Mrs. Killigrew, of the small-pox, in 1664, being only thirty-two years of age.

st shall hear the sound,

a the tomb shall bound,
ver'd with the lightest ground;
with inborn vigour, on the wing,

ting larks, to the new morning sing.

nou, sweet saint, before the quire shalt go, arbinger of heaven, the way to show,

e way which thou so well hast learn'd below.

III.

UPON THE DEATH OF

THE EARL OF DUNDEE.'

Он, last and best of Scots! who didst maintain
Thy country's freedom from a foreign reign;
New people fill the land now thou art gone,
New gods the temples, and new kings the throne.
Scotland and thee did each in other live;
Nor wouldst thou her, nor could she thee survive.
Farewell! who dying didst support the state,
And couldst not fall but with thy country's fate.

This is translated from a Latin elegy by Dr. Pitcairn.

ELEONORA

A PANEGYRICAL POEM, DEDICATED TO TH
THE LATE COUNTESS OF ABINGDON.

JRY OF

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF ABINGDON, &c.

MY LORD,-The commands, with which you honoured me some months ago, are now performed: they had been sooner; but betwixt ill health, some business, and many troubles, I was forced to defer them till this time. Ovid, going to his banishment, and writing from on shipboard to his friends, excused the faults of his poetry by his misfortunes; and told them, that good verses never flow but from a serene and composed spirit. Wit, which is a kind of Mercury, with wings fastened to his head and heels, can fly but slowly in a damp air. I therefore chose rather to obey you late than ill: if at least I am capable of writing anything, at any time, which is worthy your perusal and your patronage. I cannot say that I have escaped from a shipwreck; but have only gained a rock by hard swimming, where I may pant a while and gather breath for the doctors give me a sad assurance, that my disease never took its leave of any man, but with a purpose to return. However, my lord,. I have laid hold on the interval, and managed the small stock, which age has left me, to the best advantage, in performing this inconsiderable service to my lady's memory. We, who are priests of Apollo, have not the inspiration when we please; but must wait until the god comes rushing on us, and invades us with a fury which we are not able to resist which gives us double strength while the fit continues, and leaves us languishing and spent at its departure.. Let me not seem to boast, my lord, for I have really felt it on this occasion, and prophesied beyond my natural power. Let me add, and hope to be believed, that the excellency of the subject contributed much to the happiness of the execution; and that the weight of thirty years was taken off me while I was writing. I swam with the tide, and the water under me was buoyant. The reader will easily observe that I was transported by the multitude and variety of my similitudes; which are generally the product of a luxuriant fancy, and the wantonness of wit. Had I called in my judgment to my assistance, I had certainly retrenched many of them. But I defend them not; let. them pass for beautiful faults amongst the better sort of critics: for the wholepoem, though written in that which they call Heroic verse, is of the Pindaric nature, as well in the thought as the expression; and, as such, requires the same grains of allowance for it. It was intended, as your lordship sees in the