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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,

Receiv'd in triumph wheresoe'er she went. 105 Her pencil drew whate'er her soul design'd, And oft the happy draught surpass’d the image in

her mind. 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 perspectives 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 defac'd, 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


115 VII.



The scene then chang’d, with bold erected 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 : His warlike mind, his soul devoid of fear, His high designing thoughts were figur'd there, As when, by magic, ghosts are made appear.

Our phenix queen was portray'd too so bright, Beauty alone could beauty take so right: Her dress, her shape, her matchless grace, Were all observ'd, 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 further 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.




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

But thus Orinda died :
Heaven, by the same disease, did both translate ;
As equal were their souls, so equal was their fate.




Meantime her warlike brother on the seas

His waving streamers to the winds 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,


V. 162. But thus Orinda died] The matchless Orinda, Mrs. Katherine Philips, was author of a book of poems published in folio, and wrote several other things. She died also of the small pox in 1664, being only thirty-two years of age. She was a woman of an indifferent appearance; but of great virtue, taste, and erudition, which endeared her to the first people of the age. The Duke of Ormond, the Earls of Orrery and Roscommon, Lady Corke, &c. Mr. Dryden, Mr. Cowley, &c. &c. were all her friends. D.

Thou hast already had her last embrace,
But look aloft, and if thou kenn'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.





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 cloth'd with flesh, and life inspires the dead;
The sacred poets first shall hear the sound,

And foremost from the tomb shall bound, For they are cover'd with the lightest ground; And straight, with in-born vigour, on the wing, Like mountain larks, to the new morning sing. There thou, sweet saint, before the quire shall go, As harbinger of heaven, the way to show, The way

which thou so well hast learnt below. 195 UPON THE DEATH OF THE EARL OF


Oh 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 thou 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.


V. 1. Oh last and best] The conduct and death of this truly valiant chieftain is described with much eloquence and animation in his account of the important battle at Killikranky, by Sir John Dalrymple, in the first volume of his Memoirs. Dundee, being wounded by a musket-ball, rode off the field, desiring his mischance to be concealed, and fainting, dropped from his horse; as soon as he was recovered, he desired to be raised, looked to the field, and asked, How things went?' Being told, All well;' then said he, 'I am well, and expired. Dr. J. W.

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