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A more exalted work, and more divine.
For what a song, or senseless opera
Is to the living labour of a play ;
Or what a play to Virgil's work would be,
Such is a single piece to history.

But we, who life bestow, ourselves must live;
Kings cannot reign unless their subjects give;
And they who pay the taxes bear the rule:
Thus thou, sometimes, art forc'd to draw a fool :
But so his follies in thy posture sink,
The senseless idiot seems at last to think. (vain,

Good heaven! that sots and knaves should be so To wish their vile resemblance may remain ! And stand recorded, at their own request, To future days, a libel or a jest !

Else should we see your noble pencil trace Our unities of action, time, and place: A whole compos'd of parts, and those the best, With every various character exprest : Heroes at large, and at a nearer view; Less, and at distance, an ignobler crew. While all the figures in one action join, As tending to complete the main design.

More cannot be by mortal art exprest ;
But venerable age shall add the rest.
For Time shall with his ready pencil stand;
Retouch your figures with his ripening hand;
Mellow your colours, and imbrown the teint ;
Add every grace, which time alone can grant ;
To future


165 And give more beauties than he takes away.






FAREWELL, too little, and too lately known,
Whom I began to think, and call my own :
For sure our souls were near allied, and thine
Cast in the same poetic mould with mine.
One common note on either lyre did strike,
And knaves and fools we both abhorr'd alike.
To the same goal did both our studies drive;
The last set out the soonest did arrive.
Thus Nisus fell upon the slippery place,
Whilst his young friend perform'd, and won the race.
O early ripe! to thy abundant store
What could advancing age have added more?
It might (what nature never gives the young)

Farewell, too little] This short elegy is finished with the most exquisite art and skill. Not an epithet or expression can be changed for a better. It is also the most harmonious in its numbers of all that this great master of harmony has produced. Oldham's Satire on the Jesuits is written with vigour and energy. It is remarkable that Dryden calls Oldham his brother in satire, hinting that this was the characteristical turn of both their geniuses. • To the same goal did both our studies drive. Ver. 7.

Dr. J. W.

A noble error,

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.

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.

(young, Once more, hail, and farewell ; farewell, thou But ah too short, Marcellus of our tongue ! Thy brows with ivy, and with laurels bound; But fate and gloomy night encompass thee around.

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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,

5 10

Thou rollist above us, in thy wand’ring race,

Or, in procession fix'd and regular,
Mov'st with the heaven's 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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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.


33 And was that Sappho last, &c.] Our author here compliments Mrs. Killigrew, with admitting the doctrine of me

If so, then cease thy flight, О 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 : fill or mend the choir of thy celestial





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

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
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 [above. Solemniz'd there thy birth, and kept thy holiday tempsychosis, 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.


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