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UCH were the notes, thy once-lov'd Poet fung, death
'Till death untimely stop'd his tuneful tongue. Oh just beheld, and loft! admir'd, and mourn'd! With fofteft manners, gentleft arts, adorn'd! Bleft in each science, bleft in ev'ry strain ! Dear to the Mufe, to HARLEY dear-in vain!
For him, thou oft haft bid the world attend,
For SWIFT and him, defpis'd the farce of state, The fober follies of the wife and great; Dextrous, the craving, fawning croud to quit, And pleas'd to 'scape from flattery to wit.
Absent or dead, ftill let a friend he dear, (A figh the abfent claims, the dead a tear) Recal those nights that clos'd thy toilsom days, Still hear thy PARNELL in his living lays: Who careless, now, of int'reft, fame, or fate, Perhaps forgets that OXFORD e'er was great; Or deeming meaneft what we greatest call, Beholds thee glorious only in thy fall.
And fure, if ought below the feats divine Can touch Immortals, 'tis a foul like thine: A foul fupreme, in each hard inftance try'd, Above all pain, all paffion, and all pride, The rage of pow'r, the blaft of public breath, The luft of lucre, and the dread of death.
In vain to deserts thy retreat is made; The Muse attends thee to thy filent shade:
'Tis her's, the brave man's latest steps to trace,
When the laft ling'ring friend has bid farewel.