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Long may she exercise her fruitful pains !
But, ah! with better hap, and bring a race
More lasting, and endu'd with equal grace!
Equal she may, but farther none can go :
For he was all that was exact below.

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MENALCAS.

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Damon, behold yon breaking purple cloud; Hear'st thou not hymns and songs divinely loud ? 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 the 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 ; 80 For like Amyntas none is left below.

ON THE DEATH OF A VERY YOUNG

GENTLEMAN.

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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, 6
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; 20
And giving us the use, did soon recall,
Ere we could spare, the mighty principal.

Thus then he disappear'd, was rarified ;
For 'tis improper speech to say he died :
He was exhald; his great Creator drew

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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 the 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 bottoin 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.

Learn then, ye mournful parents, and divide That love in many, which in one was tied. That individual blessing is no more, But multiplied in your remaining store. The Name's dispers’d, but does not all expire; 50 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.

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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,
Ho leap'd o'er age, and took the shortest way.

ON THE DEATH OF MR. PURCELL.

SET TO MUSIC BY DR. BLOW.

I.

MARK how the lark and linnet 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, list’ning, silently obey.

VOL. IL

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II.

So ceas'd the rival crew, when Purcell came; 10
They sung no more, or only sung his fame:
Struck dumb, they all admir’d the godlike man:

The godlike man,
Alas! too soon retired,

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 know : He long ere this had tun'd their jarring sphere,

And left no hell below.

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III.

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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, 30

Nor know to mend their choice.

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