Poems on Several Occasions With Anne Boleyn to King Henry VIII. An Epistle. By Mrs. Elizabeth Tollet. The Second Edition |
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On the Death of Sir Isaac Newton.
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 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
On the Death of Sir Isaac Newton.
'Tis now the Night thy pious Friends entrustTo sacred Earth thy venerable Dust:
By Nature doom'd maturely to expire;
If Life or Fame can satiate the Desire.
Immortal and secure thy Name remains,
Which scarce the habitable World contains.
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To bring the Planets to thy searching Eye:
Or rather thro' the Heav'ns thy Spirit flew,
To trace their Motions with a nearer View;
What Force their destin'd Line obliquely bends,
And what in vacuous Space their Weight suspends.
Or to describe how this terrestrial Ball,
Where Man, as in himself, has cent'red all,
And doom'd it ever to Repose profound,
Incessant finishes its ample Round
Of annual Course: Or to the Morning Ray
Obverts its Front; or wheels to fly the Day.
To calculate how distant we admire,
Or how enjoy remote the solar Fire,
Thy Soul th' Abyss of Numbers could explore:
Tho' they, like Hydra, multiply their Store.
Thy Mind, enlarg'd by Nature to compute
Her vastest Work, cou'd trace the most minute.
Alike exact to penetrate the Ways
Of subtile Light, and fine æthereal Rays:
What Obstacle compels them, as they pass,
To march diverted thro' the pervious Glass;
What various Hues the lucid Pencils paint,
How deep or glaring soften into faint;
By what Degrees their kindred Shades unite,
And how their equal Mixture spreads a White.
Sicilia now, and Samos strive in vain
With Britain bounded by the ambient Main.
Of solid Rocks on shatter'd Navies hurl'd,
And fancy'd Engines to remove the World,
Of pious Hecatombs on Altars lay'd,
When the discover'd Truth the Search repay'd.
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But see the Wonders by thyself atchiev'd.
Bacon and Boyle thy Triumphs but fore-run,
As Phosphor rises to precade the Sun:
Nor shall our Age or Isle resign the Praise
To Greece, for Sages born in ancient Days.
Soon shall the marble Monument arise,
And Newton's honour'd Name attract our Eyes:
The finish'd Bust, in curious Sculpture wrought;
Shall seem to breath, alone absorpt in Thought.
When fading Letters vanish from the Wall,
And when the lofty Pile itself shall fall,
Shou'd wasting Age, and Barbarism conspire
To sink the Dome, or sacrilegious Fire,
Some future Cicero, in Times to come
Shall rescue from Neglect and Archimedes' Tomb.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |