It might (what nature never gives the young)
Have taught the numbers of thy native tongue.
But satire needs not those, and wit will shine 15
Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line.
A noble error, and but seldom made,

When poets are by too much force betray'd.
Thy generous fruits, tho' gather'd ere their prime,
Still show'd a quickness; and maturing time 20
But mellows what we write, to the dull sweets of
rhyme.

Once more, hail, and farewell; farewell, thou

young,

But ah too short, Marcellus of our tongue!

Thy brows with ivy, and with laurels bound;
But fate and gloomy night encompass thee around.

TO THE

PIOUS MEMORY OF THE ACCOMPLISHED YOUNG LADY,

MRS. ANNE KILLIGREW,

EXCELLENT IN THE TWO SISTER ARTS OF POESY AND PAINTING. AN ODE.

I.

THOU youngest virgin-daughter of the skies,
Made in the last promotion of the blest;
Whose palms, new pluck'd from paradise,
In spreading branches more sublimely rise,

Rich with immortal green above the rest:
Whether, adopted to some neighb'ring star,
Thou roll'st above us, in thy wand'ring race,
Or, in procession fix'd and regular,
Mov'st with the heavens' majestic pace;
Or, call'd to more superior bliss,
Thou tread'st, with seraphims, the vast abyss:
Whatever happy region is thy place,
Cease thy celestial song a little space;
Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine,
Since heaven's eternal year is thine.
Hear then a mortal muse thy praise rehearse,
In no ignoble verse;

But such as thy own voice did practise here,
When thy first fruits of Poesy were given;
To make thyself a welcome inmate there:
While yet a young probationer,

And candidate of heaven.

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II.

If by traduction came thy mind,
Our wonder is the less to find

A soul so charming from a stock so good;
Thy father was transfus'd into thy blood:
So wert thou born into a tuneful strain,
An early, rich, and inexhausted vein.
But if thy preexisting soul

Was form'd, at first, with myriads more,
It did through all the mighty poets roll,
Who Greek or Latin laurels wore,

And was that Sappho last, which once it was before.

If so, then cease thy flight, O heaven-born mind! Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore: Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find,

Than was the beauteous frame she left behind: Return to fill or mend the choir of thy celestial kind.

III.

May we presume to say, that, at thy birth New joy was sprung in heaven, as well as here

on earth.

For sure the milder planets did combine
On thy auspicious horoscope to shine,

And e'en the most malicious were in trine.
Thy brother-angels at thy birth

Strung each his lyre, and tun'd it high,

That all the people of the sky

Might know a poetess was born on earth.
And then, if ever, mortal ears

Had heard the music of the spheres.
And if no clustering swarm of bees

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V. 33. And was that Sappho last, &c.] Our author here compliments Mrs. Killigrew, with admitting the doctrine of metempsychosis, and supposing the soul that informs her body to be the same with that of Sappho's, who lived six hundred years before the birth of Christ, and was equally renowned for poetry and love. She was called the tenth Muse. Phaon, whom she loved, treating her with indifference, she jumped into the sea and was drowned. D.

On thy sweet mouth distill'd their golden dew,

'Twas that such vulgar miracles

Heaven had not leisure to renew:

For all thy blest fraternity of love Solemniz'd there thy birth, and kept thy holiday

above.

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IV.

O gracious God! how far have we
Profan'd thy heavenly gift of poesy?
Made prostitute and profligate the Muse,
Debas'd to each obscene and impious use,
Whose harmony was first ordain'd above
For tongues of angels, and for hymns of love?
O wretched we! why were we hurried down
This lubrique and adulterate age,
(Nay added fat pollutions of our own,)

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To increase the streaming ordures of the stage? What can we say to excuse our second fall? Let this thy vestal, heaven, atone for all : Her Arethusian stream remains unsoil'd, Unmix'd with foreign filth, and undefil'd;

Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child.

Art she had none, yet wanted none;
For nature did that want supply:
So rich in treasures of her own,
She might our boasted stores defy :

Such noble vigour did her verse adorn,

That it seem'd borrow'd, where 'twas only born. Her morals too were in her bosom bred,

By great examples daily fed,

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What in the best of books, her father's life, she read.

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And to be read herself she need not fear;
Each test, and every light, her muse will bear,
Though Epictetus with his lamp were there.
E'en love (for love sometimes her muse exprest)
Was but a lambent flame which play'd about her
breast:

Light as the vapours of a morning dream,

So cold herself, whilst she such warmth exprest, 'Twas Cupid bathing in Diana's stream.

VI.

Born to the spacious empire of the Nine,

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One would have thought she should have been

content

To manage well that mighty government;
But what can young ambitious souls confine?
To the next realm she stretch'd her sway,
For Painture near adjoining lay,

A plenteous province, and alluring prey.
A Chamber of Dependencies was fram'd,.
(As conquerors will never want pretence,

When arm'd, to justify the offence)

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And the whole fief, in right of poetry, she claim'd. The country open lay without defence: