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Reflecting what a mighty ftore was laid
Of rich materials, and a model made:
The coft already furnish'd; fo bestow'd,
As more was never to one foul allow'd:
Yet, after this profufion spent in vain,
Nothing but mouldering afhes to remain,
I guess not, left I fplit upon the fhelf,
Yet, durft I guefs, heaven kept it for himself;
And giving us the ufe, did foon recal,
Ere we could fpare, the mighty principal.

Thus then he disappear'd, was rarify'd;
For 'tis improper fpeech to say he dy'd:
He was exhal'd; his great Creator drew
His fpirit, as the fun the morning dew.
'Tis fin produces death; and he had none
But the taint Adam left on every son.
He added not, he was fo pure, fo good,
'Twas but th' original forfeit of his blood:
And that fo little, that the river ran
More clear than the corrupted fount began.
Nothing remain'd of the firft muddy clay;
The length of courfe had wash'd it in the way:

So deep, and yet so clear, we might behold
The gravel bottom, and that bottom gold.

As fuch we lov'd, admir'd, almost ador'd,
Gave all the tribute mortals could afford,
Perhaps we gave fo much, the powers above
Grew angry at our fuperftitious 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 fo foon; Though miracles are short and rarely fhewn;

Hear then, ye mournful parents, and divide That love in many, which in one was ty`d. That individual bleffing is no more, But multiply'd in your remaining store, The flames difpers'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.

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ON SIR PALMES FAIRBONE'S TOMB IN WESTMINSTER-ABBEY.

Sacred to the immortal memory of Sir PALMES FAIRBONE, Knight, Governor of Tangier; in execution of which command, he was mortally wounded by a shot from the Moors, then befieging the town, in the forty-fixth year of his age, Oct. 24, 1680.

Yz facred relics, which your marble keep,
Here, undisturb'd by wars, in quiet fleep:
Discharge the truft, which, when it was below,
Fairbone's undaunted foul did undergo,
And be the town's Palladium from the foe.

Alive and dead thefe walls he will defend :
Great actions great examples must attend.
The Candian fiege his early valour knew,
Where Turkish blood did his young hands im

brue.

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BELOW this marble monument is laid
All that heaven wants of this celeftial maid.
Preferve, O facred tomb, thy truft confign'd;
The mould was made on purpose for the mind:
And fhe would lofe, 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 fuch harmonious grace:
So faultlefs was the frame, as if the whole
Had been an emanation of the foul;
Which her own inward fymmetry reveal'd;
And like a picture fhone, in glass anneal'd.
Or like the fun eclips'd, with fhaded light:
Too piercing, clfe, to be fuftain'd by fight.
Each thought was vifible that roll'd within:
As through a cryftal cafe the figur'd hours are feen.
And heaven did this tranfparent veil provide,
Because he had no guilty thought to hide.

All white, a virgin-faint, fhe fought the skies:
For marriage, though it fullies not, it dies.
High though her wit, yet humble was her mind:"
As if he could not, or fhe would not find
How much her worth tranfcended all her kind.
Yet he had learn'd fo much of heaven below,
That when arriv'd, fhe fcarce had more to know:
But only to refresh the former hint;
And read her Maker in a fairer print.
So pious, as fhe had no time to fpare

For human thoughts, but was confin'd to prayer.
Yet in fuch charities the pafs'd the day,
'Twas wondrous how the found an hour to pray.
A foul fo calm, it knew not ebbs or flows,
Which paffion could but curl, not difcompofe.
A female foftucfs, with a manly mind:
A daughter duteous, and a fifter kind:
In fickness patient, and in death refign'd.

XIII.

EPITAPH

ON MRS. MARGARET PASTON, OF BURNINGHAM, IN NOrfolk.

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UPON THE EARL OF ROCHESTER'S BEING DISMISSED FROM THE TREASURY,

HERE lies a creature of indulgent fate,
From Tory Hyde rais'd to a chit of state;
In chariot now, Elifha like, he's hurld
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 fee, with no fmall delight,
The bird of prey turn'd to a paper kite.

IN 1687.

With drunken pride and rage he did fo well,
The hated thing without compaffion fell;
By powerful force of univerfal prayer,
The ill-blown bubble is now turn'd to air;
To his firft lefs than nothing he is gone,
By his prepofterous tranfaction!

L. iij

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