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Would wonder, when he turn'd the volume o'er,
And after fome few leaves fhould find no more,
Nought but a blank remain, a dead void space,
A ftep of life that promis'd fuch 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 coft already furnish'd; fo bestow'd,
As more was never to one soul allow'd:
Yet after this profufion spent in vain,
Nothing but mould'ring afhes to remain,
I guess not, left I split upon the shelf,
Yet durft I guess, 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 fay 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 ev'ry fon.
He added not, he was fo pure, so 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 course had wash'd it in the way:
So deep, and yet fo 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 caufe is juftly fnatch'd away.


Thus was the crime not his, but ours alone:
And yet we murmur that he went fo foon ;
Tho' miracles are short and rarely fhown.

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 flame's difpers'd, but does not all expire;
The sparkles blaze, tho' not the globe of fire.
Love him by parts, in all your num❜rous race,
And from thofe parts form one collected grace;
Then, when you have refin'd to that degree,
Imagine all in one, and think that one is he.



Young Mr. ROGERS of Gloucestershire.

F gentle blood, his parents only treasure,


Adorn'd with features, virtues, wit, and grace,
A large provifion for fo fhort a race;

More mod'rate gifts might have prolong'd his date,

- Too early fitted for a better ftate ;

But, knowing heaven his home, to fhun delay,
He leap'd o'er age, and took the shortest way.

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On the DEATH of Mr. PURCELL.

Set to Music by Dr. BLOW.


ARK how the lark and linnet fing;
With rival notes


They ftrain their warbling throats,
To welcome in the fpring.

But in the close of night,
When Philomel begins her heavenly lay,

They cease their mutual spite,

Drink in her mufic with delight,
And lift'ning filently obey.


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

Alas! too foon retired,

As he too late began.

We beg not hell our Orpheus to restore :

Had he been there,

Their fovereign's fear

Had fent 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 mufic from the sky:

They handed him along,

And all the way he taught, and all the way they fung.

Ye breth'ren of the lyre, and tuneful voice,
Lament his lot; but at your own rejoice :
Now live fecure, and linger out your days;
The gods are pleas'd alone with Purcell's lays,
Nor know to mend their choice.

EPITAPH on the


FAIR, kind, and true, a treasure each alone,

wife, a mistress, and a friend in one,

Reft in this tomb, rais'd at thy husband's coft,
Here fadly fumming, what he had, and loft.
Come, virgins, ere in equal bands ye join,
Come first, and offer at her facred fhrine;
Pray but for half the virtues of this wife,
Compound for all the reft, with longer life;
And wish your vows, like hers, may be return'd,
So lov'd when living, and when dead so mourn'd.


EPITAPH 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 fhot from the Moors, then befieging the town, in the forty-fixth year of his age. October 24, 1680.


E 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 imbrue.
From thence returning with deferv'd applaufe,
Against the Moors his well-flesh'd fword he draws;
The fame the courage, and the fame the cause.
His youth and age, his life and death, combine,
As in fome great and regular defign,
All of a piece throughout, and all divine.
Still nearer heav'n his virtues fhone more bright,
Like rifing flames expanding in their height;
The martyr's glory crown'd the foldiers fight.
More bravely British general never fell,

Nor general's death was e'er reveng'd fo well;
Which his pleas'd eyes beheld before their close,
Follow'd by thousand victims of his foes.
To his lamented lofs for time to come
His pious widow confecrates this tomb,




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