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When Damon, who design'd to pass the day
With hounds and horns, and chase the flying prey,
Rose early from his bed; but soon he found
The welkin pitch'd with sullen clouds around,
An eastern wind, and dew upon the ground.
Thus while he stood, and sighing did survey
The fields, and curst th' ill omens of the day,
He saw Menalcas come with heavy pace;
Wet were his eyes, and cheerless was his face:
He wrung his hands, distracted with his care,
And sent his voice before him from afar.
“Return,” he cry’d, “return, unhappy swain,
The spungy clouds are fill'd with gathering rain:
The promise of the day not only cross'd,
But ev'n the spring, the spring itself, is lost.
Amyntas–oh!”—he could not speak the rest,
Nor needed, for presaging Damon guess'd.
Edual with Heaven young Damon lov'd the boy,
The boast of Nature, both his parents' joy.
His graceful form revolving in his mind;
So great a genius, and a soul so kind,
Gave sad assurance that his fears were true;
Too well the envy of the gods he knew :
For when their gifts too lavishly are plac'd,
Soon they repent, and will not make them last.
For sure it was too bountiful a dole,
The mother's features, and the father's soul.
Then thus he cry'd: “The morn bespoke the news:
The Morning did her cheerful light diffuse:
But see how suddenly she chang'd her face,
And brought on clouds and rain, the day's disgrace;
Just such, Amyntas, was thy promis'd race.
What charms adorm'd thy youth, where Nature
smil'd,
And more than man was given us in a child !
His infancy was ripe: a soul sublime
In years so tender that prevented time:
Heaven gave him all at once; then snatch'd away,
Ere mortals all his beauties could survey:
Just like the flower that buds and withers in a day.”

Menalcas.

The mother, lovely, though with grief opprest,
Reclin'd his dying head upon her breast,
The mournful family stood all around;
One groan was heard, one universal sound:
All were in floods of tears and endless sorrow drown'd.
So dire a sadness sat on every look,
Ev’n Death repented he had given the stroke.
He griev'd his fatal work had been ordain'd,
But promis'd length of life to those who yet remain'd.
The mother's and her eldest daughter's grace,
It seems, had brib'd him to prolong their space.
The father bore it with undaunted soul,
Like one who durst his destiny control:
Yet with becoming grief he bore his part,
Resign'd his son, but not resign'd his heart.
Patient as Job; and may he live to see,
Like him, a new increasing family'

DaMon.

Such is my wish, and such my prophecy.
For yet, my friend, the beauteous mould remains;
Long may she exercise her fruitful pains!
But, ah with better hap, and bring a race
More lasting, and endued with equal grace |
Equal she may, but further none can go;
For he was all that was exact below.

MENALCAs.

Damon, behold yon breaking purple cloud;
Hear'st thou not hymns and songs divinely loud 2
There mounts Amyntas; the young cherubs play
About their godlike mate, and sing 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' ethereal state,
The sapphire portal, and the golden gate;
And now, admitted in the shining throng,
He shows the passport which he brought along.
His passport is his innocence and grace,
Well known to all the natives of the place.
Now sing, ye joyful angels, and admire
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.

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 so green an age,
Such wit, such modesty, such strength of mind,
A soul at once so manly, and so kind;
Would wonder, when he turn'd the volume o'er,
And after some few leaves should find no more,
Nought but a blank remain, a dead void space,
A step of life that promis'd such a race.
We must not, dare not think, that Heaven began
A child, and could not finish him a man;
Reflecting what a mighty store was laid
Of rich materials, and a model made:
The cost already furnish'd; so bestow'd,
As more was never to one soul allow'd :
Yet, after this profusion spent in vain,
Nothing but mouldering ashes to remain,
I guess not, lest I split upon the shelf,
Yet, durst I guess, Heaven kept it for himself;
And, giving us the use, did soon recal,
Ere we could spare, 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 spirit, as the Sun the morning dew.
'Tis sin produces death; and he had none
But the taint Adam left on every son.
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 such we lov'd, admir'd, almost ador'd,
Gave all the tribute mortals could afford,
Perhaps we gave so much, the powers above
Grew angry at our superstitious 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 so 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 blessing 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.

VII.

UPON

YouNG Mr. Rogers of GLOUCESTERSHIRE,

Of gentle blood, his parents' only treasure,
Their lasting sorrow, and their vanish’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 shun delay,
He leap'd o'er age, and took the shortest way.

VIII. on the death of MR. Purce LI.

sET To MUSIC BY Dr. BLOW.

MARK how the lark and limnet sing:
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, silently 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 soon retir’d,
As he too late began.
We beg not Hell our Orpheus to restore:
Had he been there,
Their sovereign'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 sung.
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.

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Ye sacred relics, which your marble keep,
Here, undisturb’d by wars, in quiet sleep:
Discharge the trust, which, when it was below,
Fairbone's undaunted soul 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 siege his early valour knew,
Where Turkish blood did his young hands imbrue.
From thence returning with deserv'd applause,
Against the Moors his well-flesh'd sword he draws;
The same the courage, and the same the cause.
His youth and age, his life and death, combine,
As in some great and regular design,
All of a piece throughout, and all divine.
Still nearer Heaven his virtues shone more bright,
Like rising flames expanding in their height;
The martyr's glory crown'd the soldier's fight.
More bravely British general never fell,
Nor general's death was eler reveng'd so well;
which his pleas'd eyes beheld before their close,
Follow'd by thousand victims of his foes.
To his lamented loss for time to come
His pious widow consecrates this tomb.

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xii. ox. The

Monument of A FAIR MAIDEN LADY, who died At BATH, AND Is THERE INTERRED.

Below this marble monument is laid All that Heaven wants of this celestial maid. Preserve, O sacred Tomb, thy trust consign'd; The mould was made on purpose for the mind t And she would lose, if, at the latter day, One atom could be mix'd of other clay. Such were the features of her heavenly face, Her limbs were form'd with such harmonious grace: So faultless was the frame, as if the whole Had been an emanation of the soul; Which her own inward symmetry reveal’d; And like a picture shone, in glass anneal’d. Or like the Sun eclips'd, with shaded light: Too piercing, else, to be sustain’d by sight. Each thought was visible that roll'd within: As through a crystal case the figur’d hours are seen. And Heaven did this transparent veil provide, Because she had no guilty thought to hide. All white, a virgin-saint, she sought the skies: For marriage, though it sullies not, it dies. High though her wit, yet humble was her mind; As if she could not, or she would not, find How much her worth transcended all her kind. Yet she had learn'd so much of Heaven below, That when arriv'd, she scarce had more to know: But only to refresh the former hint; And read her Maker in a fairer print. So pious, as she had no time to spare For human thoughts, but was confin'd to prayer. Yet in such charities she pass'd the day, 'Twas wondrous how she found an hour to pray. A soul so calm, it knew not ebbs or flows, Which passion could but curl, not discompose. A female softness, with a manly mind:

In sickness patient, and in death resign'd.

A daughter duteous, and a sister kind: {

xiii. epitaph on MRs. MARGARET PAston, of BURNINGHAM, IN Norfolk.

So fair, so young, so innocent, so sweet, So ripe a judgment, and so rare a wit, Require at least an age in one to meet. . In her they met; but long they could not stay, 'Twas gold too fine to mix without allay. Heaven's image was in her so well exprest, Her very sight upbraided all the rest; Too justly ravish'd from an age like this, Now she is gone, the world is of a piece.

XIV. on The Monum ENT OF THE MARQUIS OF WINcriesTeR.

He, who in inapious times undaunted stood,
And midst rebellion durst be just and good:
Whose arms asserted, and whose sufferings more
Confirm'd the cause for which be fought before;

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HERE lies a creature of indulgent Fate,
From Tory Hyde rais'd to a chit of state;
In chariot now, Elisha like, he's hurl’d
To th’ upper empty regions of the world:
The airy thing cuts through the yielding sky;
And as it goes does into atoms fly:
While we on Earth see, with no small delight,
The bird of prey turn'd to a paper kite.
With drunken pride and rage he did so swell,
The hated thing without compassion fell;
By powerful force of universal prayer,
The ill-blown bubble is now turn'd to air;
To his first less than nothing he is gone,
By his preposterous transaction'

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