University of Virginia Library

Familiar Letters.

To the Memory of Favonia.

Cov'd Piety and Virtue aught avail
To turn aside the never-erring Dart
Of Vnrelenting Death, Favonia still
Had bless'd her Family, Secure of Life.
Pure was her Soul as Native Light, unsoil'd
With Vapours foul; Mild as balmy Zephyrs,
Which fan with fragrant Breath the Vernal Flow'rs;
Benevolent as those bright Minds above,
To whose triumphant Choir She now is fled.
As some fair Star adorns the lucid Sky,
And for a while diffuses all around
Its Influence benign; then disappears,
Extinguish'd to the Sight; But, when the Heav'ns
Have rowl'd their destin'd Course, renews its Lamp,
And with its sparkling Splendor chears the Night:
Thus shall Favonia with fresh Lustre rise,
At the last Trumpet's far-resounding Voice,
And eminently shine among the Blest.
Then blame not thou, with over-fond Complaints,
Th' Awards of Providence, from Error free.
Favonia's Virtues and Indulgent Love
May justly claim some Tears: Yet learn to check
Th' Excess of Grief; nor vainly give a Loose
To Passion wild: But chear thy drooping Mind,
With the bright Thoughts of that transporting Bliss
Celestial, which o'erflows her ravish'd Soul!
No ling'ring Fever now, no secret Flame
By slow Degrees consumes her Vital Store.
No pale Disease can reach that Sacred Place
Where She is now arriv'd. There chearful Health,
And ever-blooming Youth, Immortal smile!
Think with what Joy, what Rapture exquisite,
'Midst thousand prostrate Seraphs She adores
The Sovereign-Majesty of Heav'n and Earth;
And humbly in his glorious Essence views
Th' Eternal Forms of All; the Model fair
Of Nature's lovely Frame; the deep-laid Plan,
By which th' Almighty rais'd this beauteous World:
Think with what Transports of refin'd Delight,
At this pure Source of Everlasting Truth,
She'll quench her eager Intellectual Thirst,
With Copious Draughts of Science infinite.
Those Mysteries profound, which Darkness thick
Conceals from human View, with piercing Eye,
In open Light disclos'd, She clearly sees.
But whither do I rove? What Sacred Rage
Transports my Earth-born Muse, thus to presume,
With Mortal Wing, audaciously to climb
Etherial Heights, and paint that boundless Bliss,
Which None, but those who taste it, can conceive?
Forbear, vain Muse, forbear. Let Angels sing
Immortal Joys, which Angels only know!
With this be Thou content; Favonia's bless'd,
Beyond what Thought can frame, or Tongue describe.

To Mr. D.

SIR
, I have been of late so afflicted with a Pain in my Head, (which still continues, tho' not so violent as it was,) that I was utterly uncapable of making my Returns as usual; which Failure therefore I hope you will excuse. I have nothing now to present you with, but a short Hymn, which I writ during my Illness.