University of Virginia Library

Funeral Eclogues.

Urania, a Funeral Eclogue.

To the Memory of Mrs. Wharton.

Damon. Alexis.
DAMON.
Alexis , why that Cloud upon your Brow?
Has Beaute'ous Chloris lately broke her Vow,
And the sad Tydings reach'd your Ears but now?
It must be so—that must be, sure, the Cause
Which from Your Eyes this Bleeding Deluge draws.

ALEXIS.
Were it no more than a frail Nymph unkind,
It rather shou'd divert, than wound my Mind;
For he that grieves when such their Love estrange,
As well may grieve because the Wind will change.
No, Damon, no; my Sorrows fetch their Spring
From a more sad, a more Important Thing.
Were all my Life to be one Mourning Day,
Or cou'd my Heart dissolve in Tears away,
'Twere yet a Tribute for our Loss too small;
Our Loss I call it, for it wounds us all.

DAMON.
Still to your Tears you call a fresh Supply,
And still conceal the sad Occasion why.

ALEXIS.
Can it be possible you shou'd not know
The Fatal Cause that has unmann'd me so,
When Sorrow does such dismal Sounds diffuse,
And ev'ry Nymph and Swain's expiring with the News?
These beat their Breasts, and t'other rend their Hair,
Like Lovers that are wedded to Despair,
Shrieking as if the last tremendous Doom,
The Dreadful Change of Time and Place were come.

DAMON.
No longer in Suspence then let me stay;
No Grief can wound me more than this Delay.

ALEXIS.
Take then, O Damon! take the worst in Brief,
The worst! for not the Gods can give Relief.
Urania! sweet Urania! justly fam'd,
And never but with Admiration Nam'd;
Adorn'd with ev'ry Vertue, ev'ry Grace,
These in her Mind, and t'other in her Face:
Urania! in whose Temper we might find
All we believe of the Celestial Kind:
God in his Works she early did Rehearse
With Heav'nly Ardour, and harmonious Verse;
Her Verse! that makes it Disputable yet
Which most cou'd Charm, her Beauty or her Wit.
Ev'n She!—O Damon! You may guess the rest.—

DAMON.
Is Dead?

ALEXIS.
And with her all our Joys deceas'd
Nor Dies she single:—back the Blood retires,
The Eye can nothing see it more admires,
Hope's at an End, and Love it self expires!

DAMON.
O killing Sentence! which I die to know!
Or dost thou try me, and but feign thy Woe?
Ah! undeceive me quickly, if 'tis so.—
But see! thy Eyes run o'er! in them I view
The fatal News y'ave told me is too true!

ALEXIS.
Too true indeed!—when I my Thoughts advance,
Reflecting on the Turns of Fate and Chance;
What various Accidents disturb our Rest,
All level'd at the Beaut'eous and the Best,
Subject to ev'ry Wrong, and worn with Care,
(Of which, Urania! thou hast had thy Share;)
How swift by an unpitying partial Doom
They're snatch'd from hence, and hurry'd to the Tomb;
Leaving the Wicked and the Vain to wast,
And glut on Blessings they cou'd never taste;
I hardly can the impious Thought forbear,
That Heav'n sits unconcern'd at all that passes here.
What Favour does the Fair and Chast attend
But black'ning Tongues, or an untimely end,
A fatal Consort or a treach'rous Friend?
Thus in the Bloom of Youth her Verdure fades
O Brightness cast into perpetual Shades!
Mean while th'Adulterer's Frolick pleas'd and Gay,
And circulating Comforts Crown the Day,
Successively they each their Part dispence;
And this unequal Dealing's Providence!

DAMON.
Alexis, do not blame Divine Decree,
And the strict Laws of strong Necessity;
For since Eternal Justice cannot err,
What that Inflicts we shou'd with Patience bear.
'Tis not for Souls unglorify'd to pry
Into Incomprehensibility:
Ev'n Reason fails us; 'tis to Faith alone
The Secret Paths of Providence are shown:
The seeming Inconsistencies it joyns,
Brings to one Centre all the different Lines,
And shews us all is Good that Heav'n designs.
But were this Argument not half so strong,
You know, Alexis, all must die e'er long.

ALEXIS.
True, Damon, but not all must Die so young.
As for the Aged let 'em pass away,
And drop into their Tenements of Clay,
The Doom is just; they've had what Life can give
And wou'd be Burthen'd longer to receive.
But she, you know, like a Meridian Sun,
Had all her Sweetness, all her Lustre on;
A Glorious Light, tho' not arriv'd at Noon!
Ah Vertue! why allow'd no longer Date?
Ah! Treach'rous Hope! and Ah! Relentless Fate!

DAMON.
What Reason is there to Indulge your Grief
When 'tis but just to try, and have Relief?
Think her (as sure she is) among the blest,
And has begun the Sabbath of her Rest;
Think her releas'd from all that World of Woe
Under whose Weight she Labour'd here below;
And you will find to more Account 'twill turn
To bless her Change, than thus Immoderately to Mourn.
Repine not then, Alexis; 'tis not well;—
Yet, since y'are on the Subject, prithee tell
By what sad Fate the Sweet Urania fell.

ALEXIS.
A Mortal, but a Lingering Disease
Upon the Spirits of her Life did seize;
Her Strength decreas'd, and ev'ry Fatal Day
Still took a part, till all was born away.
Pale, Wan and Meagre did her Cheeks appear,
Tho' once a Spring of Roses flourish't there.
Thus long she lay, with Strong Convulsions torn,
Which yet were with a Saint-like Patience born;
Till Nature ceasing, rather forc't to cease,
Gave her a Painful, yet a kind Release.
Go, sacred Nymph, ascend the Spangl'd Sphere,
For it has wanted long thy Lustre there.
Faithful and Loving to the last she prov'd;
And better did deserve to be belov'd.
Here Colon I cou'd—

DAMON.
Mention not his Name,
But let your Subject be the Matchless Dame.

ALEXIS.
So many are her Vertues, and so vast,
And crowd upon my Memory so fast,
'Tis hard to fix on which I shall begin;
As 'twill be hard to leave, when once I'm in.
Her Language was from all that Dross refin'd
That floats in the Converse of Womankind:
So distant all her Conduct from Offence,
'Twou'd still begin, and end in Innocence.
Her Ardour for Celestial Things did show
She learn't to be an Angel here below.
Our SAVIOUR's Precept is to pray for those
That are our Mortal and Inveterate Foes;
Hard Lesson! hard to us, so prone to Err;
But 'twas a very easie One to HER.
So fixt to Truth, and fervent in her Prayer,
As if she only breath'd Ætherial Air.
The Poor no other Merit need pretend;
Affliction made her still the faster Friend.
Nor was her Charity to Sides confin'd,
But flew where e'er she Worth, or Wit cou'd find,
As much disdaining Limits as her Mind.
If e'er her Words to an Invective ran,
'Twas to th'Ungiving, Thankless, Prosper'ous Man,
Who much Receiving, yet from none wou'd part,
But view'd the Poor without a Yerning Heart.
So close with Chastity her Mind was wrought,
That all her Life knew not a Blemish'd Thought:
And as she there did her own Sex excell,
So she as much did Ours in Writing well:
Her tuneful Numbers pleas'd the Nicest Ear,
And the most Haughty Swains were Proud to hear.
Whether her Song with Friendship's Pow'r is fraught,
Or to her Private Inju'ries turn her Thought;
Whether with Love she our Affection wins,
Or Paint a SAVIOUR Suffering for our Sins,
She's all a Wonder!—like her Soul, serene!
Like Venus, Lovely! and like Dian', clean!
Ah Sweet Urania! of all Womankind
Where hast thou left one like thy self behind—
Unless the Chast Mirana? who but She?
Thy Vertuous Sister! for in HER we see,
Thou dear departed Saint, how much w'ave lost in THEE!

DAMON.
Thou hast, Alexis, so Divinely shown
The Vertues of the Nymph for whom you moan,
In such sad Numbers told what Grief supplies
This deep Dejection, and these flowing Eyes;
That I, ev'n I (tho' what I wou'd not do)
Have caught thy Frailty, and am melting too.

ALEXIS.
That pious Grief Heav'n cannot but forgive
Which makes the Vertu'ous in our Memories live.—
But see! if now thy Tears so freely fall,
There goes a Sight that will engross 'em all!
The Sweet Urania (Ah too rigid Doom!)
By Virgins born to her Eternal Home!
See with what mournful Pomp the Scene appears,
The Swains all Speechless, and the Nymphs all Tears.
Instead of Flow'ry Wreaths, with Chaplets crown'd
Their Temples are with Funeral-Cypress bound,
In vain their Silence; for their Looks impart,
A lasting Anguish, and a Bleeding Heart!
Ha! Damon! see! on the sad Bier display'd,
Where all the Riches of the Earth is laid!
You sigh! But Ah! you know you sigh in vain;
You'll never more behold her tread the Plain!
No more you'll hear that soft harmonious Voice,
Which none yet ever heard but did rejoyce!
For ever ceas'd are all her Matchless Lays!
Heav'n has clos'd up the Volume of her Days!
O Grief! that thus I yet repeat her Name,
Can say, She's dead! and not become the same!

DAMON.
Cease, dear Alexis, lest it shou'd be said
We fail'd in our last Office to the Dead:
It cannot add to our Affliction more
To see her laid in Dust—the worst alas is o'er!
Nor shall our scatter'd Flocks be yet our Care,
This more Important Duty calls us there,
With Dazies, Pinks and Daffodils and all
That Flora yields to Celebrate her Fall,
And Crown the Herse of the Departed Fair,
That, Living, was the Crown of Vertue here:
Profuse of Sweets, we not a Flower will save,
But empty all the Spring upon her Grave.

Alcander, a Funeral Eclogue:

To the Memory of Sir Gilbert Gerrard, Bar. whose Death was occasion'd by the overturning a Coach.

Doran. Amintor.
AMYNTOR.
Doran , methinks this lonely gloomy Shade
Seems only for Despair and Sorrow made:
The Cheerful Sun darts here no rosie Beam,
But all is sad and silent in extreme;
The Melancholy Place deserves a Melancholy Theme.

DORAN.
Look thro' Blue Glass and the whole Prospect's blue;
Thro' Sorrow's Optick this Retreat you view,
And that does give it the same Tincture too.
You first saw Cælia in this very Place;
Cælia! the Chastest of the Charming Race,
All Truth writ in her Mind, all Beauty in her Face!
Not one of all the Shepherds on the Plain
That sigh'd for the fair Maid, but sigh'd in vain;
She still frown'd on, regardless of their Pain:
You only gain'd her Favour, and 'twas here
The sweet disdainful Nymph vouchsaf'd an Ear:
She heard you, so much Wit and Truth were shown,
You melted her to Love, and made her all your own:
And still as Lovingly these Myrtles twine,
As if her snowy Hands lay prest in Thine,
And all the Quire of Birds stood mute to hear her Voice Divine.
'Tis you then that are chang'd; and O! if what
My boding Fears suggest I may relate,
In your Desponding Looks I read Alcander's Fate.

AMYNTOR.
You have it right, it is too truly so!
He's gone, where (soon, or late) we all must go!
He's gone, whom we for ever shall deplore!
Alcander! dear Alcander is no more!
No more! O bitter and afflictive Sound!
What two-edg'd Sword can give a deeper Wound?
What Ponyard, Poison, or envenom'd Dart
Can find a quicker Passage to the Heart?
They wound but once, and this thro' ev'ry Pore:
No more! O bitter, hateful Word, no more!

DORAN.
Thy Grief, O Friend! with the like Grief I view;
For to the Vertu'ous still a Tear is due,
As well from those unknown, as those they knew.
How many down to low Oblivion roll,
Life Name and Memo'ry, and there Perish whole?
Others there are (and yet of those but few)
At most Remember'd but by One or Two,
A Wife, a Husband, or a Gaping Heir
That inward Smiles, and Strains to force a Tear.
None but a Soul for Publick Good design'd,
Diffusive, Brave, Impartial, Wise and Kind,
Cou'd leave so many mourning Friends behind.

AMYNTOR.
If we his Vertues in our Sorrows shew,
There shall be nothing wanting Grief can do
To make 'em lasting, and to draw 'em true:
Of all the Myriads back to Dust return'd,
Not one e'er more was miss'd, or more was mourn'd!
In me, O Doran! read (and You may see
His Loss in no small Measure touches me)
How all the Swains (as if their Souls were one)
Disdain to think of Respit to their Moan;
With Eyes o'er flowing, and a Bust of Grief,
They Sigh! they Swoon! they Rave! and fly Relief!

DORAN.
'Tis hard, Amyntor, and has made of late
Some Wretched Men Expostulate with Fate;
'Tis hard, and it must pierce the Hardest Heart
To think that Honour, Beauty and Desert,
Are most obnoxious to the Fatal Dart.

AMYNTOR.
Too many sad Examples we may view,
That what Y'ave said, O Doran, is too true!
For O! to my Confusion now I find
Death makes Distinction, takes the Just and Kind,
And nought but Knave and Coxcomb leaves behind;
And they live on the Time that Nature gave,
Till, tir'd with Life, no longer Time they crave,
And upon Crutches creep into the Grave.
But such as dear Alcander at a Day,
And oft unwarn'd, in Health are snatch'd away!
Why had not I his Fatal Hour supply'd!
For Him to Live, how willing had I dy'd!
No Loss by me cou'd on the Publick fall,
His Loss does for the Publick Sorrow call,
And will, as soon as heard, be mourn'd by all.
His Country's Glory he did still attend,
That with his Life and Fortune to defend;
No Man was ever more his Country's Friend.
But he is gone! he's gone! and let us mourn!
Gone to the Grave! and never must return!
To the dark Grave! to the wide gloomy Shade!
Where, undistinguish'd, Good and Bad are laid!
O Eyes! run o'er, and take of Grief your fill,
Let ev'ry Tear be sharp enough to kill!
Let ev'ry Groan come from my Heart, and show
'Tis torn with the Convulsive Pangs of Woe!
O Cheeks! henceforth no Sanguin Colour come
To open View, but Pale usurp the Room;
Such a true Pale as may distinctly show
The fatal Cause from whence the sad Effect does flow!
Let from my Lips the livid Tincture fly,
Like Ev'ning Rays before a gloomy Sky;
And a dark Ashy Hue thro'out be spread,
Dusk'd over like the Visage of the Dead!—
In vain alas! I'd thus my Sorrows shew!
'Tis all, that Nature and that Art can do,
Short of our Loss, and wanting to my Woe!

DORAN.
When I just now Your Sorrow did Commend,
I did not mean a Sorrow without end:
The Dead claim Nothing but our Present Grief,
While Nature does exert her Pow'r in Chief;
For they that dye well give us this Relief:
They're free from ev'ry Vice, and ev'ry Care,
Envy, Disgrace, Resentment, and Despair,
With all the Num'rous Catalogue of Ills
That plague us here, and crowd the Weekly Bills.
In spite of all that's urg'd in Life's defence,
And all the Pleasures that depend on Sense,
There's no true Pleasure till we go from hence.
Beside it from the depth of Folly springs,
Our striving to prevent inevitable things.
Not all our Sighs and Tears, tho' ne'er so great,
Tho' spent at never so profuse a Rate,
Can change th'unalterable Doom of Fate:
We must resign when Heav'n does give the Call;
Cedars, where that does lay the Ax, must fall.

AMYNTOR.
That all must Die is true beyond Debate;
But some may Die too soon and some too late.
When good Men leave us (what e'er turn you use)
Tho' Heav'n may gain, we wretched Mortals lose:
There brightest Spirits but small Lustre add,
Here they shine out, and wou'd direct the Bad:
Like Israel's GUIDE in a Corporeal Shrowd,
By Night our Pillar, and by Day our Cloud.
How many cou'd we at this Instant name
That strive to put the Nation in a Flame,
Blood their Delight, and civil Strife their Aim?
For needy Men with Rage their want supplies,
And in a common Ruin soonest rise:
In any Change that's for subverting all,
'Tis they will be advanc'd that cannot fall.
He wisely saw which way the Stream wou'd force,
And ras'd the Banks that did divert it's Course.
O never let the Swains his Praise forget!
But make his Vertues lasting, as they're Great.
Nor shou'd we doubt the fixing his Esteem,
Cou'd but our Strains be equal to the Theme.

DORAN.
He was your Friend, I oft have heard you tell
Scarce new-made Mothers love their Babes so well.
Your richest Incense to his Memory bring,
You best that knew his Worth and best his Worth can sing.

AMYNTOR.
My Oaten Reed no lofty Notes can raise,
And lofty Notes alone can reach his Praise:
Yet tho' I'm short in Pow'r accept the Will,
And let my Love atone my want of Skill.

DORAN.
Be still ye Winds; let not the gentlest Breeze
With winding Laby'rinth murmur thro' the Trees:
Ev'n Philomel thy Charming Grief forbear;
Y'ave long pleas'd us, now lend your self an Ear;
Let all below, above, and all around us hear,
While in loud Strains Amyntor gives to Fame
A Life of Glory, and a Deathless Name.

AMYNTOR.
Y'ave heard, O Doran! of our fatal Broils,
Our harrast Country and intestine Toils:
How the Proud Subject, in a cursed Hour,
Assum'd the sacred Reins of Soveraign Pow'r.
By unjust Force a num'rous Host was rais'd,
The Patriots of Rebellion lov'd and Prais'd:
Enthusiasm, Interest, Spite and Rage,
And all the Agents of a barba'rous Age,
Broke loose at once, and level'd at the Crown,
To raise themselves by pulling Justice down.
'Twas for our Sins (and a prodigious Birth)
Th'Almighty pour'd his Vials on the Earth.
May we no more to such Destruction live,
Or, if we must, not from our selves receive.
Here brave Alcander, on this bloody Stage,
Found Work t'employ his Vertue and his Rage.
And that his Loyalty might first be try'd,
He took the Royal, and the suffering Side.
In all Encounters prodigal of Blood,
Nor valu'd Life lost in a Cause so Good:
Where Danger and Confusion thickest lay,
Thro', like a Storm, forc'd his impetuous Way.
Let Edge-hill's fatal Field his Worth declare,
Success in Conduct, and his Name in War:
Nor only He, but, with the like Applause,
His Father, Uncles, Brothers, all were in the Cause.
O Loyal Family! O Ancient Name!
The Sound repeated fills the blast of Fame!
The Royal Martyr saw, and had regard,
Saw his vast Worth, and gave him due Reward.
But ah in vain!—Art, Courage, Conduct, Force,
Were all too weak to stop the Torrents Course;
Down fell the Banks, the Deluge enter'd fast,
'Till all was lost, all overwhelm'd at last!
For 'twas permitted gracious Charles shou'd Bleed,
To brand his Rebels with a blacker Deed
Than Hell that did Inspire 'em cou'd Exceed!
Thus Blood and Usurpation rais'd their Head;
When with the rest the brave Alcander fled,
And long in Exile mourn'd his murder'd Lord;
Nor saw one happy Moment, till he saw his Race restor'd.
Here was a short amends for all his Pain,
A Fortune Ruin'd, and his Kindred Slain.
Th'Auspicious Prince return'd, benign, August,
Look't on his Wrongs, advanc't him into Trust;
And never was a Subject trulier just.
But who, alas! can long a Favourite be?
Or ride safe in the Court's inconstant Sea?
A Sea, indeed, where Winds but gently blow,
But full of Shelves and treach'rous Sands below;
Where when they'd to the Port of Safety Steer,
It mocks the Statesman's Art, and Pilot's Care,
And leaves th'adventu'rous Wit forlorn and bare:
A tott'ring Station can no Peace afford,
And Envy wounds much deeper than the Sword.

DORAN.
The Wisest and the Bravest ne'er cou'd be
From the vile Tongues of black Detractors free;
And rising Vertues, as they mount the Sky,
They daily watch and murder as they fly.
As the returning Light expels the Dark,
And points the Archer to the distant Mark;
So Good Men, made by their own Polish bright,
Stand but a fairer Butt for Rage and Spite.
A Prince's Favour dange'rous Glories bring;
In ev'ry Male-content it puts a Sting:
By such the Fav'ourite is despis'd, debas'd,
The Good he does the Publick goes unprais'd,
The more their Hatred, as He's higher rais'd.
When thus the Legislative Crew prevail,
And drive on furious, both with Tyde and Sail,
The Worthy, Honest, Loyal Man must fail;
Expos'd to black Aspersions, Publick hate,
And oft Resigns to an Inglorious Fate.
Of this hard Truth let wretched Strafford tell,
He, who when all cry'd Justice! Justice! without Justice fell.

AMYNTOR.
Darkn'd a while, but not quite overcast,
'Twas but a faint Eclipse, and soon was past.
Alcander's Vertue was too bright to lye
Long shrouded under Odious Calumny;
But, like the Sun, for a short time retir'd
Behind a Cloud, broke out and was admir'd.
And let me here to their Confusion tell,
Their lasting shame that shou'd have us'd him well,
(An Honour ne'er conferr'd but on the Brave)
He bore his Prince's Favour to his Grave;
Firm in his Grace he stood, and high Esteem:
And here again renews the Mournful Theme!
When Glory seem'd to court him with her Smiles,
And give him Peace after an Age of Toils;
When all around him 'twas Serene and Bright,
And Promis'd a long run of Life and Light,
Then! then his Eyes to close in Death's Eternal Night!
And, which does yet for further Sorrow call,
By a mean Accident Ignobly fall:
Not in the Field where Fame and Honour's Sought,
And where, with Blood, he had that Honour bought;
Not in his Kings, or injur'd Country's Cause,
Destroying those that wou'd Subvert the Laws:
But by a Chance that does too truely show
How little to that Trifle, Life we owe!
Not worth one half we to preserve it pay,
That is in spite of all our Care, so quickly snatch't away:
Add to all this his firm unshaken Mind,
To the fixt Pole of Glory still inclin'd:
A Carriage Graceful, and a Wit Sublime,
A Friendship not to be impair'd by Time:
A Soul sedate, with no Misfortune mov'd,
And no man was with more Misfortune prov'd.
Death he ne'er fear'd in it's most Ghastly Form,
In Slaughter, Blood, and Cities took by Storm:
Now he Caress'd him with a Cheerful Brow,
Welcome at all Times, but most welcome now!
O had you heard, e'er he did Life resign,
With how much Zeal he talk'd of Things Divine,
You wou'd have thought, so sweet his dying Tongue,
While he discours'd descending Angels sung;
Waiting his Better Part with them to bear;
Which now, let loose, thro' the vast Tract of Air
Pierc't like a Sun-beam, to it's Native Sphere.

DORAN.
There let him Rest!—and let the Thought, my Friend,
That he is Happy thy Complaints suspend,—
But come, 'tis time we now shou'd Home-ward steer,
And, to be plain, 'tis but cold Comfort here.
The Mold is damp, the Wind perversely blows,
And Night, far spent, invites us to Repose.
Come, let me raise Thee by the Friendly Arm—
What? still in Tears? and has my Voice no Charm?

AMYNTOR.
Yes, I will go, but think not of Repose;
My Heart's too full to let my Eye-lids close.
No cheerful Thought shall in my Breast find Room,
But Death and Man's Inevitable Doom:
Nor Rest will I invoke, unless it be,
That Rest that shakes off dull Mortality.
When, following Him that is past on before,
I lay me down to sleep and wake no more.

Mirana, a Funeral Eclogue:

To the Memory of that Excellent Lady Eleonora, late Countess of Abingdon.

Damon. Alexis.
ALEXIS.
Damon , the Spring is now in all her Bloom,
And, like the Phœnix, mounts in her Perfume:
If ought on Earth like Paradise can show,
'Tis at this Time a Paradise below.
But ah! shou'd some malignant fatal Blast
At once lay all her blooming Beauties wast;
Now quite Disrob'd that was but now so Gay,
As if December had succeeded May!
Shou'd you so strange an Alteration see,
Wou'd it not make as strange a Change in thee!

DAMON.
I know not well, unless that Change shou'd come;
Which Heav'n avert!—'twould be a dreadful Doom.

ALEXIS.
'Tis come! 'tis come—If any Earthly thing,
Mirana was the Mirrour of the Spring;
Chast as the Morn, soft as her smooth pac'd Hours,
Clear as her Fountains, Beauteous as her Flow'rs,
And Fruitful as her warm Prolifick Show'rs,
Her Glories all were blown, and fresh as May,
When one black Moment tore 'em all away!
No Sickness did her Charming Fabrick seize,
No Sign, no Fear, no Thought of a Disease;
All calm, all hush'd in Midnight Rest we lay,
Dreaming, alas! of a more Joyful Day:
When, like a Storm, or sudden Trumpet's Blast,
And dreadful too, as it had been the last,
As swift, as loud the dismal Tydings spread,
And did as much confound—she's dead! she's dead!
With Horror struck, and stupid with Surprize,
We scarce at first believ'd our Ears, or Eyes;
Then wish'd Those cou'd not hear, nor These cou'd see;
While all that saw her turn'd as Pale as SHE!
O Darkn'd Light! O Day shut up too soon!
'Tis just as if the Sun shou'd set at Noon;
Now Glorious, drest in all the Blaze of Light,
And now, but wink, and all Eternal Night?
Ah! why shou'd so much Sweetness Heav'n display,
Just only to be seen, and snatch'd away!
Why have the Vertuous still the shortest Stay?
Yes, Cruel Pow'rs! a Sentence so severe,
The Loss of one so Young, so Good, so Fair,
So like your selves, her Nature so Divine!
Wou'd justify us if we shou'd Repine.

DAMON.
Beware that Thought—and if you can allow
Reason may lessen Grief, hear Reason now.
'Tis true, we own her Doom too soon was past,
Her Fate was sudden, and her Loss is vast.
But think (for sure you may remember well)
Think how her Sister, dear Urania, fell,
When ev'ry Arte'ry, Fibre, Nerve and Vein
Were by Convulsions torn, and fill'd with Pain.
We griev'd that there such Cruelty was shown;
And shall we murmur because here was none?
So quick and willing she resign'd her Breath,
As if 'twere her Translation, not her Death!
Not He who did the Firy Coach 'employ
Went thro' an easier Passage to his Joy.
A kindly Sleep did the keen Arrow hide
In Ambuscade—and she but wak'd and dy'd
The Pale-fac'd Tyrant did but half his Part,
Not pierce, but gently touch'd her with his Dart;
Enough, indeed, to take her from our Eyes,
But then enough to mount her to the Skies.
Nor yet did he intend an Envious Blow,
But took her when at full prepar'd to go;
Nor cou'd he take her otherwise than so:
Her Life (so much she Labour'd to excell)
Was one continu'd Course of doing well.
Never before so much Uprightness shin'd
From the strait Compass of a Female Mind.
Ve'rtue's Columbus! she new Worlds explor'd,
And, which was greater yet, the Old Restor'd.
A Life so led must place her with the Blest;
To grieve, then, is to Envy Her her Rest.

ALEXIS.
O you mistake!—but be mistaken still,
All Men will mourn where Worth can Grief instill;
And because she was Good must we be Ill?
Who now feels not true Sorrow pierce his Mind
Has not the smallest Touch of Human Kind.
Talk not of putting Passion out to School,
To weep by Reason, and to mourn by Rule.
For such a Loss 'tis Cruel to be Wise,
Not to have breaking Hearts, and flowing Eyes,
Not to be drest in all the Pomp of Grief,
And all without a Thought, too, of Relief.
I'll draw the Scene, and, as You are a Man,
Refrain your Self from Weeping—if you can.
'Tis done.—Now see Her that was late so Fair,
Joy to the Eye, and Musick to the Ear!
An Angels Voice with Magick tun'd her Tongue,
And when she mov'd, she carry'd Paradise along!
There! see her stretch'd amidst a weeping Crowd,
Still as the Grave, and paler than her Shroud!
Observe what a dark ashy Semblance lies
Upon her, lately, Life-reviving Eyes!
Think on those Lights for ever clos'd and set,
Where so much Mildness, so much Brightness met!
See there! where Beauty did in Pomp remain,
With all the Shining Graces in her Train,
Eternal Silence, Fate and Horror reign!

DAMON.
Is this, Alexis, this the Heav'nly Fair?
Alas! how diffe'rent Life and Death appear!
I shrink, methinks, and inwardly can see
What a much more affrighting Figure I shall quickly be!

ALEXIS.

DAMON.
I saw, my Friend, I saw before You spoke
Her Tears o'erflowing as her Heart were broke;
While to the Partial Powr's she seem'd to say,
Good a Life might claim a longer Stay.

ALEXIS.
View next Three Daughters and Six Noble Sons
In whom the Blood of dear Mirana runs;
Look how the Mother has fill'd ev'ry Eye,
Tho' some so Young, they weep and know not why.
And here, Methinks, we may too plainly see
The hard, and rash Resolve of Destiny.
Their Minds, just molded, the Impression took,
Truth from her Soul, and Sweetness from her Look,
When in one Moment she was from 'em torn,
That Living Precept! whom we all must mourn.
Where can they now the like Example find?
At least, the like among the Beaute'ous Kind?
Who can, like Her, a Constant System be
Of Prudence, Meekness, Love and Purity?
Who now can raise their Souls to fit the Frame
That was design'd 'em by the Noble Dame?
Or cloath 'em round with Vertue for their Guard,
And make that easie which we make so hard?
Weep all you Tuneful Nine with one Consent,
And just as when Urania dy'd Lament.
And you her Children as your Tale's the same,
With equal Sorrows give her down to Fame.
What juster Cause can for our Tears be known
Than Honour, Grace, Renown and Sweetness gone?
Think what the Pale-fac'd Tyrant has engrost,
And what your selves, and what the World has lost?
Mirtillo, you are old enough to know;
Inform the Younger as they riper grow,
That with their Knowledge still their Tears may flow!

DAMON.
The fair Melissa, Friend, you do not mind,
(Mirtillo's Consort) sighing from behind:
There! wrapt in Sables, see the Mourner lies,
With all her Soul transfus'd into her Eyes!

ALEXIS.
Sorrow indeed, does play the Tyrant there.—
But see! ah see a sadder Object here!
How like the Dead the Living does appear!
See how her Lord in silent Anguish stands,
With Eyes erected and uplifted Hands!
He knows not what to say, or think, or do,
Confounded with the unexpected Blow!
Hardn'd in Woe, and loathing all Relief,
He seems himself the Statue of his Grief.
Ah! why with so much Violence inclin'd
For present Sorrow?—he'll hereafter find
Too much, when her Endearments all appear
Fresh to his Mind, and fix her Image there:
For tho' remov'd from our Corpo'real Sight,
He'll see her by an intellectual Light,
Not barr'd by Distance, and not veil'd by Night.
Each Day will to his sad Remembrance bring
The dear Reflection of some dute'ous thing.
The Noblest, yet the Humblest of her Kind!
The finest Form! and the most finish'd Mind!
A Cabinet fill'd with the Richest Charms
That ever Husband lock'd within his Arms?
So Tender, so Obedient all her Life,
As if his Guardian Angel, not his Wife.
So Chearful, Chast, and Studious of his Ease,
So truly kind, and so resolv'd to Please,
She gave him (as his Fate were in her Pow'r)
In nineteen Years not one afflictive Hour.
Design and Strife were Strangers to her Heart,
But Peace and Truth and That were ne'er apart.
Anger might knock, but he no entrance found:
He durst not tread that Path, 'twas Holy Ground.
Her Temper was to Piety so true,
Not her whole Life one rapid Motion knew,
Like a smooth Stream it did unmurm'uring roll,
Clear as her Eyes, and even as her Soul!
But see! her Hero can refrain no more,
His Heart is bursting, and his Eyes run o'er!
In vain he does let fall that plente'ous Show'r,
No Rain cou'd e'er revive a faded Flow'r!
Can you behold all this and Weep not too?—

DAMON.
No more Reproof—alas! my Friend, I do!
Nature is Pow'rful; to her Law I bow,
Tho' Contradicting what I said but now.

ALEXIS.
'Tis as it shou'd be—they who truly grieve,
Ne'er stand to ask their second Thoughts the leave:
True Grief, without Controul, will reign alone,
And seizing on the Fort, makes all her own.
But we'll retire, and next observe the Poor
And Naked, that in Numbers crowd the Door.
These long she Cloath'd, and those as long has fed;
She griev'd to see a Man that wanted Bread.
Ill was his Chance, tho' distant, that cou'd be
Remov'd from her diffusive Charity.
Where e'er she came, like Nile, she'd Plenty bring,
The Stream Conspicuous, but unknown the Spring.
Look how they grieve each other to behold,
And, tho' 'tis Summer, shake to think of Winter's cold.
See on that Hand the Sick despairing lie;
Now she is gone, they must the sooner Die,
Their speediest, surest, cheapest Remedy.
What help the Art of Physick cou'd afford
They had unask'd, and many she restor'd.
No wretched Creature who his Health had lost
Need, to regain it, spare the smallest Cost:
Nay when she fear'd her Judgment wou'd not do
(And much she strove to know, and much she knew)
Then she wou'd pay for the Physician's too.
Observe how they Expostulate with Fate,
That did not grant her Life a longer Date.
In sparing HER, ye Cruel Pow'rs! (they cry)
Y'ad kept us fearless of Mortality:
Now we must Languish, Pine, and drop away,
For who so Rich will care the Poor shou'd stay?
The JEWISH DORCAS was recall'd by Prayer,
Why is that Method ineffectual here?
She was as Good, and we as much her Care:
But ah! we do not tread th'Apostles Path;
She had the Vertue, but we want the Faith.
O Wond'rous! O Exemplar Soul! if e'er
True Innocence did in thy Sex appear;
If ever we cou'd yet Perfection see,
We have the nearest View of it in THEE!—
But least malicious Men shou'd Disbelieve,
And think we Flatter, or but vainly grieve,
Hear Friend, my sacred Imprecation hear,
And let both of us kneel, and both be bare.
Doom me (ye Pow'rs) to Misery, Strifes and Shame,
Let mine be the most ignominious Name;
Let me each Day be with new Griefs perplext,
Curst in this Life, nor happy in the next,
If I believe she has her LIKE survives;
Or if I think her not the best of Mothers and of Wives.

DAMON.
Thy wish shall have the Suffrage of us all.—
But hark!—'tis so, our Bleating Charge does call:
Close, close the mournful Scene, and let the Curtain fall.

Damon, a Funeral Eclogue:

On the much Lamented Hen. Bayntun, Esq;

Strephon, Menalcas.
STREPHON.
We have not for Mirana dry'd our Eyes,
When Damon's Fate does give us fresh surprize;
E'er we cou'd rise from that amazing Blow
W'are struck anew, and laid again as low!

MENALCAS.
I thought w'ad not one Tear yet left to fall,
I thought that Angel had Exhausted all:
When see! again they stream from ev'ry Eye!
Nor less than such a Sea of Grief cou'd such a Loss supply!

STREPHON.
He was, Menalcas, all he here cou'd be,
Th'abstracted Goodness of Humanity:
Of vast Processions, and an Ancient Line,
His Mind Capacious, and his Form Divine.
But what does Beauty, Birth, or Pow'r avail
When Fate does the weak Fort of Life assail?
Snatch'd from our Hopes ere half his Race was run!
Ah Early Good! and ah too Early gone!
Why are the Hero's Matchless in Desert
The first that must from all their Comforts part?
Or are we truely what old Plautus calls
Us miserable Mortals? Tennis Balls,
Which Fate in sport, without regarding Who,
Does strike away, and still, profusely, call for new:
Cruel! for thus the Wise, the Good, the Brave,
Are not distinguish't from the vilest Slave,
One Common Chance attends 'em all, and one Promiscu'ous Grave.
Of Kindness Nature molded half his Heart,
Of Wit, and Brav'ry form'd the other part.
Favour from most we can but Partial call;
He with extended Arms embrac'd us all.
Scarce Heav'n it self more Liberal of it's Store;
To know him was to be no longer Poor.
Had but the Muse a Voice to reach his Fame,
Such Worth shou'd never want a Deathless Name.

MENALCAS.
Who cou'd believe, when favour'd with a Son,
Who thought when the Boys Race of Life begun,
His Noble Sire's was so nigh being run?
A Prospect then of op'ning Joys were seen,
All Great and Bright, with not a Cloud between;
But while we gaz'd and did their Glory prize,
Heav'n shut the Scene for ever from our Eyes!
O dark Eclipse! O Worth for ever fled!
The Living Beggar'd to enrich the Dead!

STREPHON.
Curst be the Tongue that, with a pois'nous blast,
His bright unclouded Fame wou'd overcast:
Now w'are in Mourning; but the Muse e'er long
Shall change her Stile, and think upon his Wrong;
Revenge her Noble Patron's injur'd Fame,
And fix (who e'er 'tis) on the hated Name
As true an Ignominious lasting Brand,
As red-hot Iron on a Villains, Hand:
And all too small for th'opprobious Slave,
That lets his Malice reach beyond the Grave.

MENALCAS.
Let 'em alone, let 'em their Fictions frame,
They reach not Damon's ever-honour'd Name:
The Publick Voice does know 'tis Private spite,
And Envy, Friend, was never in the Right.
—But tell me, how does Adorissa fare?
How does that Beauty her Affliction bear
Now she is lanch't into this Sea of Care?
Her Grief, methinks, no Reason shou'd controul;
He was her Joy, her Life,—he was her very Soul!

STREPHON.
When on his Bed the dying Swain did lye,
As full of Love, so full of Piety,
She wringing of her Hands and weeping by.
The World (he cry'd) the World I can despise,
With all its trifling Joys and Gawdy Vanities,
But Ah! from Thee Thus to be torn away!—
Grief stopt him here, he cou'd no further say,
For only, only SHE was worth his Stay;
The doubly bitter thought from HER to part
Deeper than Death did pierce his Labou'ring Heart.
All Wit, all Beauty, and all Truth her own;
To be to her in that Relation known,
It hardly is more Heav'n where he is gone.
But Lo! the Hour is come, his Breath's requir'd,
He gaz'd on her and, with a Sigh, expir'd.
What here cou'd the Divine Afflicted do?
What Pow'r oppose against the Cruel Blow?
Swooning, she fell into her Womens Arms,
And in a Moment lost a Thousand Charms.
Her Warmth, her Colour, Senses, all were fled,
And, of the Two, she seem'd the Real Dead:
And dead we thought her, not a Sign was shown,
Nothing to tell but that her Soul was flown.
But who that's Sick, can at a Wish, have Ease?
Or can the Wretched die what Hour they please.
Reviv'd, her bright, her All-Commanding Eyes
She cast up, half in Anger, to the Skies;
Accus'd the Pow'rs that gave her Double Woe,
To take him hence, and not his Consort too.
Ah Charming Adorissa! spare that Breath,
Thou more than Angel talk not yet of Death!
Think on the Double Pledge he left behind,
The more Despair presides, the more to them unkind:
Like You, the Daughter; and like Him, the Son;
Ah! who will teach 'em after you are gone,
So well the Follies of the Age to shun?
Who can so truly point the Boy the Race
His Noble Father did to Glory trace,
And press him swifter onwards in the shining Chase?
And then your own Example is so bright,
Your other Comfort will have all the Light
Vertue can give, to guide her Goings right.
O Live! fam'd like thy Father's Mother's be,
In Worth, in Honours Eminent as She,
In Age, Maternal Care, and Piety—
But mourn!—Ah! mourn his Loss yet many Years,
Spare but the Life, be lavish of thy Tears!

MENALCAS.
Amid'st our Grief we may this Comfort find,
H' has left, in Minature, another self behind:
And, to speak justly, we have ne'r before
Seen one so very Young that promis'd more.

STREPHON.
Admire the Boy, (the Boy, too, I admire)
But not forget the Vertues of the Sire.
No, Damon, if I banish THEE my Mind,
Be Life Improspe'rous, and be Heav'n unkind—
—But hark! the Winds are loud, without Controul
They Rave, as if they meant to shake the Pole:
The Skies all with one dismal Noise resound,
In Sables hid, and hung with Horror round.
By this Tempestuous Night is well exprest
The Tumult and Confusion of my Breast;
The Passions all in Arms to rob me of my Rest.
And then, perhaps, the coming Dawn may see
The feather'd Quire assume their Harmony,
The Heav'n's disburthen'd, and a Glorious Morn
All Vernal Gay, as Nature just were born.
But ah! the Rising Light will bring us on
No Objects, but of Damon dead and gone!
With Grief that in no Bounds we shall contain,
A Ruin'd House, and an Impoverish'd Plain!
How much in Him did late his Country boast?
How much in Him has his dear Country lost?
Lost an Impartial Lover of her Laws,
The Church and King a Champion in their Cause.
Honour, her Guide; and Honesty the Prop
That strongliest kept her fainting Credit up:
And O! the Muse that does his Worth commend,
Has lost, at once, her Judge, her Theme, her Patron and her Friend!

MENALCAS.
'Tis late—Rest to the Wretched gives Relief;
To her Embraces Sacrifice your Grief:
In her soft Arms the Soul no Anguish meets,
For the tir'd Mind drinks deepest of her Sweets.

STREPHON.
Think not, Menalcas, sleep will ease our Care,
But rather make our Loss the heavier bear.
While in her Charge the Clay does fast remain,
Th'Immortal Part, not shackl'd in her Chain,
Will bring him to our Visionary View,
And make us, Nightly, mourn him o'er anew?—
But let us go; least taking Time too large,
We be not up against Alexis knocks:
That Swain, you know, is Early with his Charge:
We may, at once, both weep and tend our Flocks.

Nicander and Thirsis; a Funeral Eclogue:

To the Memory of Sir James Long Bart. and Sir Robert Long Bart. his Grandson, who dy'd about three Days after.

Palamon. Lycon. Amyntas.
LYCON.
Change, change these Strains into the Voice of Moan!
Or know you not Nicander's Dead and gone?
All Eyes are Flowing, ev'ry Heart does Bleed,
And thou art tuning of an Oaten Reed.

PALAMON.
Age must make way when Destiny does call;
If Fruit is Ripe, who grieves to see it fall?
How can Nicander's Fate require our Tears,
Who dy'd, as full of Honours, full of Years?
If to his Name you wou'd a Trophy raise,
Let it not be with Sorrow, but with Praise.
Those that untimely drop our Pity crave;
But he was old, and mellow'd for the Grave.

LYCON.
Had Palamon but known his Worth like me,
His Sighs had come as thick, his Tears as free.
Yet (if our Grief can be so long supprest)
We'll not deny so Gene'rous a Request:
And when you see in his long Race of Fame,
How still the Prize of Vertue was his Aim,
You'll Praise that Grief which now you seem to blame.

PALAMON.
I blame it not, but wou'd excuse my own;
Yet spare thine now, and make the Hero known.

LYCON.
Sprung from an Ancient Stock, and noble too,
More Glory there he leaves, than thence he drew:
The Name whole Harvests has of Honours bore,
And he has added largely to the Store.
Who e'er degene'rates from a Noble Race,
With his own Hand asserts his own Disgrace:
He scorn'd to come behind their bravest Deeds;
No Spur an In-born Emulation needs.
None did in Danger further Dare than He;
The Blossom shew'd the Fruit, the Fruit the Tree.
The Liberal Sciences he early gain'd,
With Ardour sought, and with Delight retain'd.
His Form so Lovely, we but one cou'd find
That did exceed it of the beauteous Kind,
The Charming Portia! after to him given,
To let him have below Taft of Heav'n.
Thus, with Applause, he past his younger Age;
Then came the Civil War to whet his Rage.
Born for his Country's Good, his Loyal Soul
(Which Fate cou'd not depress, or Force controul)
Espous'd the Side that had the least Success,
And but for him it might have, oft, been less.
His Courage was in num'rous Conflicts try'd,
His Sword as oft in Rebel's Blood was dy'd.
At last Confusion overspread the Land,
In vain did these Obey, or those Command:
Religion, Royalty, and Law o'erthrown,
Successful Villany made all its own:
Nor left a Prospect Comfort to afford,
But Peace Exil'd, no more to be Restor'd,
A Bleeding Country, and a Murder'd Lord!
'Twas here the Greatness of his Soul was seen
By all that plac'd not Prejudice between;
Above his Pow'r he buoy'd the sinking State;
But ah! what Atlas cou'd support the Weight?
And here 'twas, too, his beaute'ous Consort's Care
(When Sequestrators meant to strip him bare)
VVas his Estates Preserving and Repair.
Her Love, her Wisdom, Wit, we learn from hence,
She sav'd it then, and has encreas'd it since;
O ample Proof of Female Innocence!
From Vertue such as this we might Presage
More Guiltless Times, and a more Happy Age:
And Lo it came?—Auspicious Charles Return'd,
From whom the Royalists, despis'd and scorn'd,
So much had suffer'd, and so long had mourn'd.
And as none than Nicander griev'd before
So much, so no Man then cou'd Triumph more;
Or their Allegiance and Expence Employ
In Nobler Scenes of Grandeur, Love and Joy.
His Active Age thus past among the Great;
His last and feebler Years were all Retreat:
Unless his Country (which his Worth admir'd)
In Senate his Advice, or Aid requir'd.
The Rural Life and Innocence he lov'd,
And a whole Age had their Contentment prov'd.
Plenty and Joy he spread thro' all the Plains,
Pleas'd were the Nymphs, and happy were the Swains!

PALAMON.
And happy HE that, nurs'd in War and Strife,
So well cou'd taste the Peaceful, Unambitious Life.

LYCON.
The Name of Peace, O Friend, his Office bore,
And none e'er Labour'd to preserve it more.
Beneath his Dignity He'd stoop to be
Th'Occasion those at Variance might agree:
Nay further yet, wou'd with his Money part
To pull the Core out from th'Infected Heart.
Thus Foes he'd with Superiour Kindness awe,
And in the Yoak of Friendship make 'em draw,
To keep 'em from the Harpies of the Law:
Those Harpies, Lycon (fatal to our Rest)
That all our Country Villages infest;
That worse than Wolves, of late, have round us prowl'd;
Those for a Sheep, but These are for the Fold.
By them of our old Haunts w'are oft depriv'd,
Tho' the long Claim is from the Gods deriv'd.
Neighbour with Neighbour setting at Offence,
With more than with a Devil's Diligence.

PALAMON.
Blinded with Spite, how vain a thing is Man?
Like Flies, how busie in his own Trepan?
They see a Blaze, and plunge into the Flame;
And Law's to the Litigious Slave the same.

LYCON.
Nor this the worst; in Corporations too
They've Footing took,—but all their Footing Rue:
So Pole-cats in a Warren beat about,
And, once got in, Root all the Natives out.
Not an ELECTION in the Burrough's made,
(Whatever other Bills may be delay'd)
Without th'Attorney's being trebly paid:
Jobbing their Votes, he for few Guineas buys;
But who he sells to, must to Hundreds rise.
No matter what his Groaning Country bears,
So he can fill his Purse, and keep his Ears.
'Tis carrying on his own, and Brethrens Cause
To choose a Race that may confound the Laws:
For soon such Legislators plainly show,
'Tis to be brib'd above, they bribe below.
Thus Villains now become the Common Name;
Th'Electors and th'Elected all the same.
Forgive me, Friend, the Sting's Improper here;
But when a Sett of Rascals lie so bare,
Who that may have a Hearty Lash wou'd spare?

PALAMON.
Cou'd thy Resentments but Nicander hear,
He wou'd attend 'em with a List'ning Ear:
A fix'd Abhorrence to 'em all he bore,
Nor cou'd th'acutest Satyr Lance 'em more.

LYCON.
Whene'er, with Others, he in Sessions sate
In Service of his Country, or the State,
He scorn'd the Scale shou'd any way decline
Either for Fear, for Favour, or Design:
Thus careful to avoid the least Extreme,
You'd think Astræa's Hand had pois'd the Beam.
In Earth, O Goddess! You cou'd ne'er Delight,
To Heav'n with Him Y'ave took your second Flight:
Wretched of Old You left the Sons of Men,
And w'are almost as wretched left as then:
Nicander did thy perfect Image bear;
He did thy Loss, but who must his Repair!—
Here, Friend, the Rancour of our Nature scan,
For Envy spares not this Prodigious Man;
But thro' false Opticks Spots pretends to find
In the Seraphick Brightness of his Mind:
(To gaze on so much Lustre made 'em blind.)
Happy! thrice happy for themselves 'twou'd be,
If those that blame him were from Blame as free.
Who ever liv'd that 'scap'd an envious Tongue?
There's no such thing as Privilege from Wrong.
Shou'd Angels stoop to bear us Company,
Angels themselves wou'd not be Censure-free.
Yet still his base Traducer he forgave,
Which ever happn'd to be Fool or Knave.

PALAMON.
A Villain's Praises, or a Sot's Applause,
Is an Effect that does degrade the Cause;
To have from Men so vile an evil Name
Proclaims w'are injur'd, and asserts our Fame.

LYCON.
So famous for his Justice, tho' he be,
He has no less Renown for Charity.
With what he gave, he did so freely part,
Swift was his Hand, but lagg'd behind his Heart.
Nor did he drive the Ostentatious way,
Like those that give for Praise,—that is, for Pay;
The Gift not known, they think the Alms is lost;
But HE that taught to give forbid to boast.
No, to the Secret Path he had Regard,
And Heav'n did give him openly Reward:
The Liberal Hand of that he daily felt,
And th'Overplus as Liberaly he dealt;
Mindful of Want, as if in Want h' had dwelt.
Large his Possessions, larger was his Mind,
Just like his Bounty, which was unconfin'd.
His Gate still open, and his Table free;
His noble Spirit cou'd not brook to be
Out done in Love, or Hospitality.
When the warm Season did our Nobles bring
To taste, or Bath in Bladud's wond'rous Spring;
Who of our Rural Leaders cou'd we see
So Obsequious, Courtly, or Elate as He?
Or when the Royal Families resort,
For the same Reason, made that Place their Court;
Who at their Coming and Return again,
So constantly did wait 'em thro' the Plain,
With a more Loyal Heart, and such a num'rous Train?

PALAMON.
O Lycon! such a publick Soul as this
In it's Retirements must be of a Piece!
His private Hours how did the Hero pass?
Men are best seen in that more faithful Glass.
The Heart in Publick Views we darkly find,
'Tis Converse gives the Image of the Mind.

LYCON.
'Tis true my Friend;—but when we wou'd relate
The Charms that happy Converse did create,
W'are lost in multiplicity of Ways,
A Spring of Vertues, and a Maze of Praise!
If of Religion he Discours'd, we thought,
(So pleasing 'twas to hear) an Angel taught:
More might be learn't from him in one short Day
Than in whole Years from some that Cant for Pay.
If he but spoke of History, you wou'd find
All the past Ages present in his Mind:
His faithful Memory gave his Tongue the Cue,
To Season that his Wit was always New.
When e'er in Counsel he employ'd his Thoughts,
He was Achitophel without the Fau'ts.
If on the Sciences his Speech did fall,
You'd think he Understood, and Practis'd all.
Philosophy's Experimental part
He Study'd with much Labour, Cost and Art:
In Animals and Vegetables too,
He found the Deity at ev'ry View.
To a sharp Eye that can with Judgment look
Thro' the nice Foldings of wise Nature's Book,
GOD's no less seen in things minutely small
Than in his spacious Work, the mighty All.
Full was his Sense, and his Expression clear,
Food to the Mind, and Rapture to the Ear!
Bright his Ideas, and sublime his Thought;
So Moral, he spoke just as Plutarch wrote.
His Language had of Youth the Force and Flower,
Nor had his great Age made his Temper sour.
But ceas'd, ah! ceas'd is that harmonious Tongue
On which Mankind with such Attention hung!
Long we enjoy'd it e'er 'twas snatch'd away,
But ah! his Night is longer than his Day!
The Grave when once the Lamp of Life's withdrawn,
Admits no Morrow, no returning Dawn!
A heavy Gloominess that Light invades,
Dark! dark Oblivion! and eternal Shades!
And this not all; the Wicked and the Just,
Hero and Slave, are level'd in the Dust.
Tho' we repine not, yet we may presume
Such Worth deserv'd not that promiscuous Doom.

PALAMON.
A Great and Noble Life y'ave Travell'd o'er,
And justly you such Excellence deplore:
May his Example in young Thirsis raise
Like Ardor to be such a Theme for Praise.—
—But look Amyntas swiftly hither hies,
And nearer see, your Grief has touch't his Eyes.
What News my Friend:

AMYNTAS.
Confusion! Death! Despair!
Horror on Horror, more than Man can bear!
O Dismal Chance! and O Relentless Fate!
Why must such Goodness have so short a Date!

PALAMON.
So short a Date? Who is it drains these Tears?
Does he die Young that has seen Fourscore Years?
Why dost thou grieve at so profuse a Rate?
And think that Early, which, indeed, is Late?

AMYNTAS.
O you mistake! Nicander's Loss I know,
And with a Bleeding Heart have mourn'd it too.
'Tis Thirsis, Friends, 'tis Thirsis I deplore;—
But think the rest, for Grief will let me say no more!

LYCON.
Y'ave said too much, not to go further on,
And vainly You wou'd hide what must be known:
Speak then, tho' it prove Mortal to my Sense;
'Tis worse than Death to live in this Suspence.

AMYNTAS.
Then die!—for Thirsis you no more must see,
A sudden Blast has shook him from the Tree!
The fierce Disease that whets Death's keenest Knife,
The Mortal Foe of Beauty and of Life,
That of the Fairest Fruit will ever taste,
At once, has laid his Blooming Glories waste!
Ah Brittle! Ah too finely twisted Thread!
Too bright a Jewel to be set in Lead!
Too sweet a Form to mingle with the Dead!
Nicander gone, in all our Height of Grief
The Thoughts of Thirsis gave us some Relief.
Where must we now for Consolation go?
Or when have Cessation for our Woe?
No Glimpse of Comfort must we hope to see
Till we are in the Grave, and cold as He!

PALAMON.
In vain we watch, and Vertue make our Guard,
The Stroke of Death what Hero e'er cou'd ward?
Unseen, or sudden, he attacks the Fort,
And where he aims is never wide or short.
Ah Lovely Youth! and art thou too expir'd!
Whose Company both Gods and Men desir'd!
Thy Soul so soon else had not been requir'd!
Ha! Lycon! have these Tydings struck thee Dumb?

LYCON.
No, were I Marble now my Tears wou'd come!
Witness ye Pow'rs! we to your selves appeal;
Is this the Justice You to Mortals deal?
Is this the Way the wounded Heart You heal?
Say that Nicander dy'd by a Decree
Impartially Impos'd by Destiny,
The Fate of Thirsis yet was Cruelty!
He that in Honours might have flourish'd long,
Snatch'd from our Hopes, all Beautiful and Young,
When none that ever liv'd did promise more,
Or sooner such a Crop of Vertues bore!—
Ah! think Amyntas, if of Grief our Share
Does weigh so much, how Portia her's does bear!
Can all her Patience such a Shock sustain!
Will not her Eyes gush down a Show'r of Rain
Enough to drown this Fabrick once again!
What can she do, what can she think, or say,
Now Root and Branch are torn at once away!

AMYNTAS.
Like those for whom no hopes of Life remain,
That dying Lie, yet say they feel no Pain;
Sorrow has seiz'd so fully on her Heart,
And pierc'd so deep, she's Ignor'ant of the Smart:
Her Spirits with her Loss are sunk so low,
That she's benumb'd and stupify'd with Woe.
Full fifty Years of her foregoing Life
Nicander show'd the World the happiest Wife:
And then that Husband's Fate but just to know,
When Thirsis dead! was added to the Blow!
Thirsis! the lovely, witty, bold and gay,
Thirsis! her Age's Comfort, Hope and Stay!
Hard Hearts! that can for them their Tears defer,
And harder yet that cannot pity Her!

PALAMON.
Yet such there are—but while they theirs deny,
Our Duty 'tis that Comfort to apply.
My Grief once o'er I will my Counsel give;
And O I wish that Counsel she'd receive.
She then shou'd daily less'ning be her Cares,
And fix her Hopes on the remaining Heirs:
She shou'd consider Heav'n is absolute,
Whose Will, perhaps, 'tis impious to dispute:
Why shou'd we grieve for those remov'd away,
When none can be so happy by their Stay?
Who knows but Fate, by this, may let her see
More clear the Frailty of Mortality?
And make her Ardour, which was great before,
To climb the starry Region still be more?
Where they're but enter'd first to make her room,
And fix her Seat against she's wing'd to come.
—But see! the distant Sun yet lower gets,
And they will be interr'd before he sets.
Dry then your Eyes; there we shall weep again;
Let us reserve a fresh Supply till then.

LYCON.
The Sheep are yet to fold.

AMYNTAS.
And let 'em stay,
Guardless at Night as Keeperless to Day:
Nay 'twill be well, now Fate has robb'd the Plain
Of all the Worth and Wit that did remain,
If ever we return to 'em again;
That growing wild, they may for ever stray,
And we, with Grief, turn yet more wild than they!

The Mourning Swain, a Funeral Eclogue.

Humbly offer'd to the Memory of the Right Honourable James Earl of Abingdon; And Dedicated to his Grace the Duke of Leeds.

The Mourning Swain, a Funeral Eclogue:

On the much Lamented Death of the Right Honourable James Earl of Abingdon.

Menalcas, Damon, Alexis.
MENALCAS.
He sinks! he dies away!—Alexis! Friend!
'Tis thy Menalcas calls!—some God descend,
And save the Swain from an untimely End.
Ha! he grows Paler still!—O Damon! you
Are come, as you Prophetically knew
The Aid I wish'd, and what his Griefs wou'd do!

DAMON.
I heard the broken Sobs, and fault'ring Breath,
And Groans like those the Wretched give in Death.
What sad Occasion—

MENALCAS.
Ask not yet our Grief,
But lend the swooning Shepherd quick Relief:
Chafe, chafe his Temples; forward gently bow
The Body—this, or nothing else will do:
Tho' when his Spirits to their Seat return,
He lives to Grief, and but revives to mourn!

DAMON.
What unforeseen and sudden Stroke of Fate
Is this, that Nature sinks beneath the Weight?
That Life, retiring, shuns th'unequal Fight,
And if it conquers must o'ercome by Flight.

MENALCAS.
The worst that cou'd the wretched Youth attend:
Bertudor's Dead! his Master, Patron, Friend!
Bertudor! than which yet a worthier Name
Was ne'er took up, or sounded off by Fame.
I brought him Word the Noble Soul was flown,
And fear the Fatal News has wing'd his own.
Is this to be your Image? Cruel Pow'rs!
How are we Yours, when withering Grass and Flow'rs,
Vapours and Bubbles, are so truly Ours?—
—But see! the Blood does to his Cheeks ascend,
And Labouring Life returns—How fares my Mourning Friend?

ALEXIS.
Again! do I yet draw this hated Breath?
And, flying Life, can be but mock'd with Death?
Will not the Partial Pow'rs that rule above
Permit this last, best, dearest Act of Love,
To die! and by that Test our Sorrows prove?
Must we be doom'd in Being to remain,
Renew'd to Grief, and but preserv'd for Pain?
Ah! dear Menalcas! what an Ease 'twou'd be
Cou'd we at Will shake off Mortality!
Cou'd with our Tears our Lives dissolving fall,
And Grief had long Oblivion at her Call?
But 'twill not be!—in worst Extremes, as now,
The Soul wou'd rest in Death, and swoons to go,
When strugling Nature gives us back to Woe!

MENALCAS.
The Fatal Loss, Alexis, all will rue,
Heavy to us, but heavier yet to you:
You were acquainted with the Hero young,
He knew you early, and he lov'd you long.

ALEXIS.
He found me helpless, and of Friends bereft,
Of Parents, and the Little they had left.
The World look'd frowning on my Early Years,
And I seem'd destin'd by my Stars to Cares.
He took me, rais'd me, fix'd me in his Sight,
By Precept and Example kept me Right;—
But ah! the Lamp is gone, and I am hid in Night!
He taught me Good, then gave that Good regard;
But still, it still was short of the Reward.
With the new Day new Favours he'd impart,
Then make the World believe 'twas my Desert.
And shall? O shall this BENEFACTOR go,
And we not sing his Worth, and sigh our Woe?
The last sad Task that Gratitude can do!
Shall Time or Rage be suffer'd to efface
The Mem'ory of this best of British Race?
Shall Fame amid'st such Merit silent lie?
Shall e'er the Springs that water Grief be dry?
No! no! while Vertue does on Earth remain,
And Flocks and Herds feed on th'Oxonian Plain;
While Learning there and Piety increase,
And Truth can rest in the soft Arms of Peace;
While there is Wealth employ'd to Gene'rous Ends,
While there are Sweets in Love, and Faith in Friends,
So long the Muses shall his Loss deplore,
That rain'd a Golden Show'r on them, and Manna to the Poor.

DAMON.
How various are the Ways of Providence!
How crooked oft they seem to Human Sense!
He's gone! for whom there's not a Soul but Grieves,
And yet his Foe, the Treach'rous Jockney lives:
He Lives! (nor does degenerate from his Breed)
That never did one honourable Deed:
Yet lives in Prosp'rous Fortune, high in Trust,
But barba'rous to Desert, and plung'd in Lust:
He lives! that yet ne'er did a Loan restore,
E'er pay a Debt, or e'er relieve the Poor:
He lives! that wou'd subvert the Church and State,
And ride 'em, loaded with Despotick Weight:
He lives! that nothing Impious e'er did shun;
He lives! a longer Race of Vice to run;
He lives! and yet the good Bertudor's gone!

MENALCAS.
If Vertue meet with a so early Fate,
Can Vice presume to hope a longer Date?
If Tempe'rance thus at Noon is snatch'd away,
Can wild Excess expect to End the Day?

ALEXIS.
It does! it does! and ev'ry Wish succeeds,
On Down it lies, and on Ambrosia feeds;
No inward Pang it feels, or future Reck'ning dreads.
The best, alas! are summon'd first to go,
Have least Success, and least Regard below.
The Haughty mount, and on the Humble tread,
Depress 'em Living, and Revile 'em Dead:
Their Honours, won with Blood, are from 'em torn,
And by their Mortal Foes insulting worn.
No Disappointments e'er th'Unjust attend,
The Just have hardly GOD or Man their Friend.
Hence Providence is oft misunderstood,
Scoff'd by bad Men, and doubted by the Good;
While undistinguish'd Right and Wrong are hurl'd,
And Knave and Fool between 'em share the World.

MENALCAS.
'Tis not for Man, with a too daring Eye,
To look into the Secrets of the Sky;
Or if he shou'd, in vain he strives to see
Thro' the Dark-woven Folds of Destiny.
As the Meridian Sun, all flaming bright,
Gaz'd on, confounds, and quenches human Sight;
So Reason fails, and sinks beneath the Weight
Of Will, Omniscience, Providence and Fate:
From the high Beach 'twou'd look the Ocean o'er,
But there's no Reaching to the distant Shore:
Abstruse, Immense, and barring all Access,
The further we go on, the more 'tis Wilderness!
But thou, Great Soul, disburthen'd of thy Freight,
Art Landed on that other Side of Fate;
To Thee those Distributions now are clear,
That so perplex, and so confound us here.
'Tis true, thus much by Reason's understood;
Affliction is the Test that tries the Good:
Where'er it visits 'tis by Heav'n's Command;
Not Shuffl'd out, as Vice wou'd understand,
With blinking Eyes, and a Promiscu'ous Hand.
If Prosp'rous Fortunes are to most a Snare,
Why not th'Afflicted God's peculiar Care?
Expos'd to black'ning Tongues, and faithless Friends,
Only to ply their Souls for Nobler Ends;
For Regions where w'are known, and know aright,
Where Day is never to resign to Night,
And flying Time no more can bound Delight.
Shou'd Pleasure here run smooth with equal Feet,
And a long Life no Disappointments meet;
Shou'd the first Honours be by Worth possest,
Humility advanc'd, and Pride deprest;
Shou'd Hope succeed and Root out ever'y Care,
Our Friends all Faithful, and all Chast the Fair;
What e'er Hereafter more were to be giv'n,
We here shou'd fix, and seek no other Heav'n.
But since this never was, nor will be so,
Not Revelation scarce can plainer show
That Vertue's not to wear her Crown below.
This Contemplation shou'd Your Griefs remove;
Our very Suffe'rings a Reward does prove,
It must not be on Earth—and it must be Above.

ALEXIS.
Of this, Menalcas, I am conscious too,
But what avails it to divert our Woe?
Bertudor, tho' to endless Glory gone,
Has left us Cause for a whole Age's Moan.
When Great Elijah did on high ascend,
And Heav'n's bright Chariot his Ascent attend,
What Joy was it to his Remaining Friend?
He, in His Loss, deplor'd his Country's Fate,
Their Civil Strifes, and Cruel Hazael's Hate;
Nor yet is Ours a fix'd unmurmu'ring State.
When will Delive'rance from Oppression come,
If such as HE are call'd so Early Home?
When will our Publick Fears and Private Hate
Be at an end, and lose such Props of State?
Who, when the Royal Cause is sunk so low,
Will set so vast a Fortune at a Throw,
And with such Skill divert th'Impending Blow?
Who in the Gap, when Force wou'd RIGHT devour,
Will stand so firm against Unbounded Pow'r?
Stemming the Tide of Violated Laws,
Till he has made the Just the Prospe'rous Cause?
O Britain! Thou, whose Happiness he sought,
Whose Happiness he wou'd with Life have bought,
Thy Peace his constant Aim, and still intending Thought;
Let thy sad Genius now put Sables on,
And thro' the Land diffuse her Faithful Moan,
That ev'ry Eye may Weep, and ev'ry Breast may Groan!
And Thou, O Learned Town! whose sacred Name
Has been so long th'unenvy'd Theme of Fame;
Thou, too, shoud'st in the Mourning Concert share,
Scarcely so much thy Guardian Angels Care.
Who e'er before made Thee appear so Great,
Or in thy Civil, Learn'd, or Martial State?
Or who hereafter (thro' more Tryals prov'd)
Will leave Thee—so bemoan'd, and so belov'd?
How did he Factious Fears and Doubts controul!
How still Contention! and how tune the Soul!
How baffle Envy! and how Silence Pride!
In all Elections certain to Preside.
Others to Feuds and Violence wou'd run,
But where He came he made all Voices one.
With a bare Breath they mov'd as he inclin'd,
Like standing Corn all bending with the Wind.
At once to RIGHT and ROYALTY a Friend;
Nor did he to thy Burroughs recommend
A needy Race, for Policy to bait,
Like Gudgeons, catch'd with Pensions by the S---te.
But while, blest City, I'd thy HERO show,
I rove, and make Disgressions from my Woe.
Ah! never! never cease to sigh his Name!
So true to Honour, and so dear to Fame!
Let all thy Sons bewail th'Exalted Man,
And Thou, Immortal YALDING! lead the Van,
Thou who new Force dost to our Langu'age give;
He who so well can Praise, as well may Grieve.
Ransack the silent Seat where Mem'ory lies,
To bring our Woes Proportional Supplies:
Let not the Hoary Dews of Lethe steep
So many Vertues in Eternal Sleep:
But as they pass our Intellectual View,
Let Sorrow grave 'em deep, and keep 'em new:
Then, when we have survey'd th'Amazing Store,
Let us reflect their OWNER is no more!
How all that's Prudent, Noble, Just and Brave,
Is cover'd with Bertudor in the Grave!
O Thought! that on the Rack does ev'ry Nerve constrain!
Distraction were less Grief! and Dying gentler Pain.

MENALCAS.
My dear Alexis, if that Rain must fall,
But speak the Hero's Worth—and weep it all.

ALEXIS.
It was my full Design:—but first my Friend,
(And Prostrate I'll the sad Account attend)
Tell by what Malady he hence was torn,
With how confus'd a Grief the Loss was born,
All Raving!—'twas too little, sure, to Mourn!
He had to Human Sight no least Decay,
Warm as a Summer Sun's reviving Ray,
Nor Promis'd less than a long Summer's Day;
Fresh as the Morning, when the Pearly Dew
Foretells the bright Meridian to ensue:
But there he stopt! there did the Gloom arise!
Veil'd with surrounding Clouds from Human Eyes!
Eclips'd! when most conspicuous in the Skies!
Unwillingly the Rural Shades he left;
(Unhappy Shades! of all your Joys bereft!)
Never in Senate he deny'd his Aid;
This only, only Time he wou'd have staid;
But 'twas his Country call'd—whose Call he still obey'd.
—But I prevent Thee; dear Menalcas, on;
And—if I can—I'll stifle in my Moan

MENALCAS.
To tell you true (who e'er it may displease)
He dy'd of the Physician;—a Disease
That long has reign'd, and, eager of Renown,
More than a Plague Depopulates the Town.
Inflam'd with Wine, and blasting at a Breath,
All it's Prescriptions are Receipts for Death.
Millions of Mischiefs by it's Rage is wrought,
Safe where 'tis fled, but Barba'rous where 'tis sought.
A black, Ingrateful Ill! that, call'd to Aid,
Is still most Fatal where it best is paid.
So slight at first his Ail, it cou'd have done
No further harm, but must of Course been gone,
Had not this worse Malignance forc'd it on;
And cruelly (till then all Pure and Good)
With it's own Venom dash'd the circl'ing Flood.—
By this time we the Hero's Danger found;
He near Expiring, and we Weeping round.
The Sighs of Widows, and the Orphans Cries,
Importunate for Aid, besieg'd the Skies.—
—And now the Fever seem'd in part t'Asswage;
Death grinn'd a horrid Smile, and half forgot his Rage.
As he grew better so the Town reviv'd,
As Joy it self were from his Health deriv'd.
But whether 'twere to shew, tho' ne'er so late,
How fervent Prayer can turn the Course of Fate;
Or whether 'twere a last expiring Glare,
The fatal Hope that ushers in Despair;
Or whether yet the Line of the Disease
Cou'd be no further lengthn'd out for Fees,
He soon relaps'd; relapsing weaker grew,
And the pale Tyrant came again in view.
Here Grief was at it's utmost stretch disclos'd,
We all Confounded! he alone Compos'd.
What Blessings did he to his Friends bequeath!
What Joys describe! what dying Raptures breath!
With what Assurance did he meet his Fate!
How fearless pass th'inevitable Gate!
His Soul had by Anticipation here,
A Taste of Heav'n before it yet was there.
O Truth! O Innocence! O peaceful Close!
Hail him (ye Angels) to his long Repose.—
But now an universal burst of Woe,
Thro' all the Town did like a Torrent flow.
The very Senate mourn'd his early Fate,
Mourn'd this ADJUSTER of the Church and State;
As quite despairing any more to see
RELIGION reconcil'd to POLICY.
The Clergy next their PATRIOT's loss deplore,
No more to hear his Voice! to have his Smiles no more!
In dangerous Times they freshly call'd to Mind,
How diffe'rent Parties in their Aid he joyn'd;
Then, with a Grief too big to speak in Tears,
In Silence sunk beneath their former Fears:
For ne'er before, in the most impious Age,
Were they pursu'd with such invet'rate Rage,
So slighted by the Great, and slander'd from the Stage.
His Friends you next might see Distracted stand,
Too weak the Streams of Anguish to Command:
Nor Compass, Card, or Pilot left to Guide,
They hopeless plunge into the raging Tide.
But theirs, and ev'ry Grief the Poor's out-did,
Tearing the very Earth up to be hid,
And Raving Self-destruction was forbid!
A frightful Prospect they before 'em see
Of Wants, and unreliev'd Adversity,
Ev'n those that knew him but by common Fame,
With Tears repeat their common Patriot's Name.
Nor less of our regard it ought to have,
To think what Numbers mourn'd him to the Grave:
With mutual Praise their mutual Sighs did vie,
And from so many Mouths opprest the Sky—
There rest his Ashes:—but his nobler Name,
Expanding as it mounts the Starry Frame,
Shall fill the expiring Breath, and latest gasp of Fame.

DAMON.
'Tis done, the Task you bid Menalcas do;
His Praise, a Nobler Task, we now expect from you.

ALEXIS.
That Praise, alas! shou'd be by Angels Sung,
At least the first of the Castalian Throng:
Not in my Numbers, broken, rough and lame,
But Verse of the Duration of his Fame;
Such as where-ever read shou'd sway in Chief;
Mine's but the Duty of a Servant's Grief:
Tho' yet (so much my Soul his Name reveres)
What in my Stile unelegant appears,
I'll sanctify with Truth, and polish with my Tears.
Witness ye everlasting Lamps above,
Ye sacred Lights that round us nightly move,
Witness how oft, when the long Day was done,
And all Devotion silent but his own,
W'ave seen him on his Knees before th'immortal Throne.
As if at neither Morning, Noon and Ev'n,
There Hours enow to Piety were giv'n,
Part of the Night in Prayer he always spent,
The Time by most to Wine and Lewdness lent.
No Hypocrite e'er with more Ardour cou'd
Unseen be Ill, than he'd unseen be Good.
What ever doing, or where e'er he were,
His Privacies did no Detection fear;
We ne'er cou'd find him when unfit to see,
Nor hear him, but the Theme was Piety.
No Faith by Works was ever readier shown,
If when no Act of Charity is done,
That Day be lost—He never squander'd one.
As soon the Sun might cross from Pole to Pole,
As soon the wand'ring Planets cease to roll,
As he dismiss the Poor without their Dole.
No Fears, by which our Scepticks are distrest,
E'er found the least Admittance to his Breast:
Where-e'er he turn'd his View, Sea, Earth and Skies,
GOD, in his Works, was present to his Eyes.
Unhappy they, that see this wond'rous Frame,
And after make a Doubt from whence it came!
His Converse, tho' 'twas cheerful, ne'er was vain;
His Soul wou'd start to hear a Word profane:
That fatal Rock where half our Nobles split,
Lost for the poor Repute of having Wit:
With such the Vertuous are the only Elves,
But Devils are thought Angels by themselves.
Where once he lov'd he never cou'd distrust;
Kind to a Fault, and to a Scruple just:—
But most, he most did fly the Snares of Lust.
Not all the Darts thrown by the beauteous kind,
That, Light'ning like, so quick a Passage find;
Not all their Wit, and never ending Art,
His once engag'd Affection cou'd divert,
Or melt the Chastity that wall'd his Heart.
Our Saviour's Precept he to Practice brought,
And never, never lusted, not in Thought.
And to reward his Truth, he twice was joyn'd
In Wedlock to the best of Womankind.
The first, the brightest purest Soul that e'er
Was sent from Heaven, to shew us Mortals here
What Angels and translated Saints are there!
To see her once was ev'ry Charm to know
Of Peace above, or Purity below;
Imagination cou'd no further go!
So Sweet her Form, th'Idea warms us yet!—
But Ah! that Light in all her Glory set,
In all her Youth (and we all drown'd in Tears)
E'er she had numbred three and thirty Years:
Yet thirteen times had call'd Lucina's Aid,
And was as oft a happy Mother made.
His Next did a like Scene of Joy presage;
That sent to charm his Youth, and this to bless his Age.
Her Mind so justly to her Form contriv'd,
The living Wife but seem'd the Dead reviv'd.
No Jot Impar'd, or less amazing bright,
For her succeeding such a Glorious Light:
A strange Eclipse had certainly been thrown
On any Face, or Vertue but her OWN.
Here were a Subject now our Voice to raise,
To sing at once her Sorrows and her Praise!
A Year! but one short Year in Wedlock run,
E'er robb'd of all her Conq'ring Eyes had won!
Her Eyes! a Charm that cou'd for Ages bind,
Were Comfort certain, or had Fate been kind.
Ah beaute'ous Widow! cou'd I think, when late
The Muse did on your happy Nuptials wait,
That such a Scene of Pleasure, Love and Light,
So soon wou'd close in Everlasting Night!
That one short Year wou'd so destructive prove
To strictest Vertue, and the noblest Love!
Ah! what avails our Hope, if Truth must here
Be least, or latest Providence's Care?
What Comfort have we to'wards the Goal to strive,
If thus the Stream of Fate at Random drive?
If all the Blessings of the Good and Fair
Must, like a Bubble break, and end in Air!

DAMON.
You know there's none exempt from human Cares—
But, Friend, you lose his Vertues in your Tears.

ALEXIS.
Forgive me, Damon, I've too long digrest;
But who cou'd hold to see such Charms distrest?
Vast are the Praises to his Vertues due,
But some Regard must wait on Beauty too:
Ev'n he himself wou'd Pardon such a Start,
That give our Duty where he gave his Heart—
—But to our View his Tempe'rance next appears,
His fast Companion from his Early Years.
In all th'Afflue'nce of a Wealth so vast,
He ne'er the Common Bounds of Nature past.
Tho' on his Board (where all the Seasons smil'd)
What Earth cou'd furnish plenteously was pil'd;
Tho' there the Sea a constant Tribute paid,
And Richest Wines (declining Nature's Aid)
Flow'd round, as from a Spring that ne'er decay'd;
'Twas but prepar'd, proportion'd to his Store,
To feast his Neighbours, and to feed the Poor.
Who born so high, wou'd yet so low descend?
Then only Proud, when he cou'd serve a Friend.
Upon his Word you, as on Fate, might rest;
The rather, if it crost his Interest.
To Truth ev'n his most trivial Thoughts did tend;
As heavy Bodies sink, and Flames ascend.
Ev'n Contraries his Meekness reconcil'd;
As soon as Anger touch'd his Breast, 'twas Mild:
Sternly he to the Beard wou'd Vice reprove,
Tho' his Aversion still was meaning Love:
From most, Resentment does in Hate con clude
But his Concern was always for your Good.
For ev'ry turn of Human Chance prepar'd,
As none he Injur'd, so he nothing fear'd;
For Vertue ne'er was missing from his Guard.
Thus, by a wond'rous Mixture, you might find
In him the Hero and the Christian join'd,
The Loftiest Courage and the Lowliest Mind!—
What shall we say?—unless by Angels penn'd,
His Praises, like our Grief, can have no End.
Nature her self does of this WORTHY boast,
Aloud she cries—Here was no Labour lost:
While to their Various Molds I'd others fit,
Ten Thousand fail me for one Lucky Hit.
Hereafter, when the Nobler Souls I Frame,
Such as shall early get a Deathless Name,
And late pursue the shining Chase of Fame,
They by this PATTERN shall be all design'd;
And, Copying him, Exalt the long Degraded Kind.

MENALCAS.
Were not your Sight subservient to your Moan,
You wou'd perceive it is already done.
What Copy can you hope to see so fair
As that he drew in his Illustrious HEIR?
Who is more likely Fame's now sinking Blast
To lift again as high, and make it last?
A Noble Character I grant y'ave drawn;
But since 'tis Darkness there, look on the Rising Dawn:
What Promises Bertudor's Worth can give,
Like a new Eden, all in him revive.
Then in our Hope his CONSORT with him shares;
Born for his Ease, and soft'ning all his Cares,
She does the Noblest Modern Instance prove
Of Peace in Wedlock, and of Truth in Love.
This happy Pair thy Sorrows shou'd divert;
And never was a nobler Work for Art.

DAMON.
Begin, Alexis, let thy tuneful Song
Paint him all Lovely, Affable and Young:
Then let him shew the vast Advance his Youth
Has made in Honour, Eloquence and Truth;
How none to Pleasure e'er was less a Slave,
More thro'ly Noble, nor more early Brave.
With him, his Gene'rous Brother's Worth proclaim,
Who all they owe their Birth will pay in Fame:
In Peace, they shall the Arts of Peace adorn;
Or War, if they for Bloody War are born.
His Sisters then shou'd be Triumphant shown,
Their Sables off, and all their Brightness on;
Warming where e'er their happy Influ'ence flies,
Love in their Mien, and Conquest in their Eyes!

MENALCAS.
As justly shou'd the fair Carnarvan's Name
Be handed, with her Niece's, down to Fame:
She who by Vertue does assert her Blood,
And values less her Birth than being good:
That Sister who so much his Loss deplor'd,
And seem'd, at last, as hard to be restor'd:
That Sister who to save him wou'd have dy'd,
Who all his Sickness on her Knees wou'd 'bide—
Ah! cou'd so bright a Suppliant be deny'd!
Let not her num'rous Alms be hid in Night,
Tho' private done, and flying human Sight:
Nor shou'd her Chastity thy Pen decline,
The hereditary Vertue of the Line;—
Begin, and be thy Song as famous as thy Theme's Divine.

ALEXIS.
Ah Friends!—I grant my Duty owing there—
But first (ye Pow'rs!) I'll first perform it here;
First with a bleeding Heart, and weeping Verse,
Pay my last Homage to Bertudor's Herse.
That Office o'er, we to their Names will turn,
There truly Praise, as here we truly mourn.—
—But no such Theme shall now the Muse employ,
No thought of Comfort, nor no dream of Joy!
Faithful to Grief and wedded to my Moan,
All my Relief shall be—to hope for None!—
—Ha! Damon! where? whence come these dismal Cries?
Shriekt out, as they were Nature's Obsequies!
As if the general Doom just now were bid,
And cleaving Earth were yielding up its Dead!

MENALCAS.
To the same Cause of Grief the Country yields;
I spread the News thro' the Wiltonian Fields:
No longer now bemoan'd by Swain to Swain,
It gathers Head, and sweeps along the Plain:
Like an impetuous Flood it all o'erbears—
The Sadder Deluge, as 'tis made of Tears.

ALEXIS.
Lead on Menalcas.—This will be a Scene
Fit to Indulge the Sorrows I am in!
Hark! louder! how the sad affrighting Sound
Does from the Hills back on the Plain rebound,
And tells us—Death can now no deeper Wound!
The Flocks and Herds run bleating o'er the Plains,
And Sympathize with the Despairing Swains.
Some dismal Tydings Heav'n's uncommon Rage,
In Groans of Thunder, did last Night Presage.
The Faithful Dogs in horrid Concert howl'd,
And the fierce Wolves unguarded found the Fold,
While croaking Ravens Death and Woe foretold!
With Light'ning sindg'd, the blasted Heath is bare,
And Horror is the sole Possessor there.—
But let us haste and join 'em, now their Grief
Is at the full, and hopeless of Relief.
Bertudor is their Theme—Bertudor we
Will cry, and Echo back their Misery.
Bertudor! O Bertudor!—O no more!
For ever now no more!—
Away! and let me join the weeping Throng,
To hear him Mourn'd, to hear his Praises sung,
And die with the dear NAME upon my Tongue!

Thealma, a Funeral Eclogue:

On the Death of Mrs. Jane Roderick.

Daphnis, Alexis, Almeria.
DAPHNIS.
Welcome, Alexis, from the Cambrian Air;
Not more they griev'd the sweet Thealma there,
Than thy long Absence was lamented here.
—Ha!—from what Cause do these new Sighs arise?
Why dost thou beat thy Breast and heave thy Eyes?
Almeria's well; and she all other Loss supplies.

ALEXIS.
She is, indeed, of all my Joys the Chief,
And 'tis that Thought which now revives my Grief:
To see her will afresh my Woes renew,
And set the dead Thealma full in View.
O Friend! 'tis an Affliction so severe,
As without strong Support I cou'd not bear!
My Eyes scarce for the best of Master's dry'd,
Before that dearest, best of Sisters dy'd!
To what e'er Fate the rest of Men are born,
I seem, my Daphnis, only made to Mourn.

DAPHNIS.
Too true, Alexis, we have oft been seen
With Briny Tears to wet this Verdant Green:
The Beaute'ous Flow'ers, in all their Balmy Pride,
Have with the Fatal Moisture pin'd and dy'd:
The Sheep, abandon'd, our Despair have told,
And kindly, to divert our Sorrows, bleated for the Fold:
But ne'er till this Inauspicious Hour
Did I e'er see thee Rain so free a Show'r.

ALEXIS.
Ah Daphnis! (tho' it scarce may gain Belief)
You see but now the Leavings of my Grief:
Cou'd I my Loss, and all her Worth relate,
You'd think I mourn her at too mean a Rate,
Forget her Dead, and poorly side with Fate.

DAPHNIS.
I well remember (tho' but short her stay)
When she from far a Visit came to pay;
Her Converse not ev'n more by you desir'd
Than here by all our Rural Youth admir'd,
A Conq'ring Pow'r she in her Aspect bore,
Made by an unaffected Sweetness more.
No look was grating, and no Motion strain'd
Yet Caution still preserv'd, and Decency maintain'd.
The Study'd Arts, and ev'ry Am'rous Toil
Which others use their Lovers to beguile,
She render'd vain with one victorious Smile.
Th'inviting Nymph does ev'ry Shepherd pall;
She minded none, and yet subdu'd 'em all.
When e'er we Danc'd, in graceful Movements, She
Alone made Measure vie with Harmony:
Others might look with a more lofty Air,
But all in vain; she had the Eye, the Ear,
Our Thoughts, our Looks, our very Souls were there!

ALEXIS.
And yet, my Friend, you in this Truth must join,
Her Beauties then were just in their Decline:
But if she warm'd ev'n in her Western Sun,
Who cou'd withstand th'intenser Rays at Noon!
A noble View in her Decay was shown,
But, youthful all the Graces were her own.
Those soft Remains so much admir'd by you,
I saw, my Daphnis, in their vernal Hue,
When Rose nor Lilly cou'd such Colour prove,
Nor scarce th'Immortal Amaranth above!
Then lay our Youth all Dying at her Feet;
O truly Lovely! and Profusely Sweet!—
This for her Form;—but in her Mind there lay
A thousand secret Beauties, worthy Day;
Nor shall they with her to the Grave retire,
If Verse can Charm, or Love and Grief Inspire.
'Tis true, she mov'd in no Illustrious Sphere,
But she the more cou'd influence being near;
Tho' not of the first Magnitude in Light,
Yet, in Proportion, equally as bright.
Her Modesty was by some Angels drawn,
The Colours mingl'd with the blushing Dawn;
Nor in her Mind a meaner Station took,
Tun'd by her Tongue, and sweetn'd with her Look!
So chast her Converse, like a vestal Flame
She breath'd a Purity where e'er she came.
Whether it were her Goodness, Pow'r or Skill,
When she reprov'd there was no doing ill;
So much she calm'd the Blood, and sway'd the Will.
No base Discourse (for not the nicest Ear
Will the flagitious Sons of Lewdness spare)
Cou'd to her Mind find out the smallest Track;
Still met with Blushes, or sent blushing back.
Her Vertues, like her Air, their Credit gain'd,
As easie this as those were unconstrain'd.
Thorny and rugged some believe the Way
That leads to bliss,—or Thorns they there wou'd lay
T'excuse themselves and others when they stray.
Brought to a Habit; none e'er smoothlier cou'd
Go on to Evil than she went to Good.
In her all-kindly Eyes we might behold
A wond'rous Goodness, never to be told!
Thro' which was strangely and distinctly seen
How all the happy Movements workt within:
Like Hives of Glass that thro' the Fabrick shew
How Bees dispose their rich Ambrosial Dew.
Deceit and Pride, the Vices of the Fair,
We might perceive had no Existence there:
No Room in those bright Regions cou'd they find,
So far her Sex was distant from her Mind
Her Piety, at once sublime and strong,
Was all around with holy Trophies hung;
The Noble Fruit of Vertue rooted young.
The time she cou'd from Rest and Business spare
Was all Contrition, Penitence and Prayer.
Nor was her Vertue of the rigid kind,
Exposing ev'ry Errour it cou'd find;
Nor stretcht its Censure to the inmost Thought,
Denouncing Hell for ev'ry casual Fau't;
Such Vertue is at best, so over-nice,
A Virulence that but declaims at Vice.
Hers always was a kind and Gene'rous Frame,
That, being good, thought all the World the same.
Her Openness 'tis true, with Wrong might meet;
But better to be cheated than to cheat.
Just the like Praise my own Almeria wins;
By Nature Sisters and in Vertue Twins.—
But does she still the same Impatience wear?
I have not seen her yet, but sent she'd meet me here.

DAPHNIS.
Just as you left her;—still her Tears supply
The Streams of Grief, as they wou'd ne'er be dry.—
But wrapt in Sables, see! she hither hies,
And her whole Soul as issuing from her Eyes!

ALEXIS.
Aid me, ye Pow'rs to Man it out!—and Thou
O Friend! if ever, give Assistance now:
The softest Thoughts that Comfort can excite
Call to thy Mind,—and set her Notions right.

ALMERIA.
My dear Alexis! tho' too long your stay—
Welcome! most welcome!—all I yet can say.
I thank th'Immortals for thy safe Return:—
But my poor dear Thealma's Fate I must for ever mourn!

ALEXIS.
O Let me in my Arms thy Body close!
And here for ever hide thee from my Woes!
The Debt I've paid that was Thealma's Due;
Ah! do not—do not thou unman me too!
Thy Sorrows with the last Distress I see;
Nor longer can my Tears with thine agree,
For now I grieve to take a Part from thee.

ALMERIA.
In vain, Alexis, You this Care impart,
The Weight is sunk, and settl'd at my Heart;
There like a heavy Mass of Lead it lies,
Bleeds in my Breast and gushes from my Eyes.

DAPHNIS.
Mark, but how vainly Passion makes you move;
Unjust to the two dearest things you Love!
For her you mourn that is to Glory gone,
And, careless, let Alexis languish on:
Regard, Almeria, such a Consorts Peace;
As 'tis your Grief he mourns, your Grief of Course shou'd cease.

ALMERIA.
'Tis kind and I will struggle to forbear;—
But I've a thousand Things to ask, and hear.
Let there I beg, be nothing from me hid,
Not the minutest thing she said or did:
All the whole Progress, first and last relate,
Her Sickness, Patience, Penitence and Fate:
So strong a Ply to Goodness she receiv'd,
She cou'd not die less vertuous than she liv'd.

ALEXIS.
Take then the History from the Day of Care
I left thee wedded to Affliction here.
All gloomy like our Sorrows, was the Morn.
I parted hence, and Light did grudgingly return.
Three weeping Days I travell'd thro' the Plain,
Thro' rising Waters, and thro' falling Rain,
Ambitious to ascend the Clouds again.
Three more o'er craggy Cliffs thro' pathless Woods,
By deep devouring Boggs and rapid Floods,
I yet went on;—Impending Horrors there,
And yet more frightful Precipices here.
Thrice did we pass th'Averno's Raging Stream,
All wild and dreadful as a Stygian Dream.
Here to the Clouds th'aspiring Rocks did rise,
And seem'd, like Atlas, to support the Skies:
Down from their Ragged Sides the Cataracts roar'd,
And in their Passage dismal Hollows boar'd.
A hundred Spouts at once, with Echoing Sound,
Their hide'ous Din did thro' the Air rebound.
Mean while the Light'ning thro' the Gloom appear'd,
But in this Scene of Terrors scarce was fear'd;
Nor, tho' so nigh, was yet the Thunder heard.
But now descended to the Neighbou'ring Vale,
Patience and Courage too began to fail:
A furious Torrent just before us lay,
And not a Bridge, or Guide to point the way:
Ten times we cross'd it—which with fresh Supplies,
Pouring at once both from the Hills and Skies,
Still as we further went did higher rise.
But who can all our Dangers to You tell?
Again we mounted, and again we fell.
At last the Ocean to our View appear'd,
Which more than all we yet had seen we fear'd:
An Arm of which, a dange'rous Pass, there lay
That we must cross;—there was no other way:
The Ebb we watch'd; and was no sooner o'er,
But we beheld it cover'd from the Shore,
And all a Sea, where all was Sand before.
The Winds by this time all their Fury try'd,
And rais'd a Tempest to assist the Tyde,
Which of it self all Human Pow'r defy'd.
I that had never seen the Sea before,
Shrunk to see Mountains tumble to the Shore;
The Curling Waves each other Should'ring on,
Like Routed Armies when the Field is won:
Dashing the Rocks, they there their Pow'r contend;
But there (the Fate of Pride) they all in Ruin end.

ALMERIA.
No more, Alexis; tho' I see you here,
And Danger past, I yet that Danger fear;
The bare Relation shocks my trembling Ear—
It was unkind in me to let you go.

ALEXIS.
But 'twas Almeria, what you did not know—
At last, there open'd to our View a Scene
Of ample Breadth and ever verdant Green;
Like that to which the Trojan Chief was led,
After he past the Regions of the Dead:
The Soil almost like ours, the Air as sweet,
A Little Albion 'tis behind the Great,
Where stands the Noble Griffithina's Seat.
The happy Plains she there has govern'd long,
Grace in her Mein, and Musick on her Tongue:
Never was yet her Hospitable Door
Shut to the Good, or slung against the Poor.
Prudence and Vertue all her Actions Grace;
Of vast Possessions, and an Ancient Race.
Nothing she says, and nothing does design
Unfit for a Descendent of her Line.
This Noble Dame, to whom she long was known,
Still lov'd our dear Thealma as her own,
(The truest Breeding lowest Condescends)
And Enter'd in her happy Roll of Friends.
But vain, alas! her Pow'r, her Love and Skill,
For here Thealma took her Fatal Ill;
And (as she nothing yet but Health had known)
At the first Seisure gave her Life for gone:
Nor did the Thought her Fear or Doubt create,
But strengthn'd her Submission to her Fate.
As soon as Ill disposing her Affairs,
All her Remaining Time was Prayer and Tears:
Tho' ne'er was Life more distant from Offence,
Or Death that less had Need of Penitence.
But now the Malady much stronger grew,
And to her Brain, the Seat of Reason, flew;
At once did all her Train of Thoughts displace:
And introduc'd, instead, a Raving Race:
For Prudence (where there late so much was shown)
We might enquire; but all, alas! was gone,
All but Chimæra's, Dreams, and Notions not her own.

ALMERIA.
Unhappy Fate! to be so far Remov'd
From all that lov'd her, and that best she lov'd:
From all that Comfort to Affliction lends,
Her near Relations and her dearest Friends!
The very Thought she had not Pow'r to bear,
Nor I, Alexis, scarce the Pow'r to hear!
She had perhaps some Secret to unfold,
Which she wou'd only to my self have told:
This foster'd in her Heart a gnawing Pain,
And sent up thence a Ferment to the Brain—
Tell, I adjure you, if aright I aim;
Did she not Sigh, and Rave Almeria's Name?—
(Ah! cruel Heav'n! regardless of her Cries!)
And wish me there to close her Dying Eyes!

DAPHNIS.
You that can thus find out new Ways to Grief,
As well shou'd think on others for Relief.
Can there a better Fate the Globe contain,
Than to the last Repentant to remain,
And then dissolve without the Sense of Pain?
Wou'd you, Almeria, think your Doom severe,
(And nothing does resemble hers so near)
To dream of Heav'n, and, waking, find y'are there?

ALEXIS.
But now the Fever did its Rage abate,—
In vain;—the Lagging Mercy came too late:
So tho' a Vessel from a Storm's releas'd,
Disable'd, it may sink when that is ceas'd.
Howe'er, a Gracious Interval it sends,
To take a last Adieu of all her Friends.
There she to you her dying Love did give,
And wish'd we long in Mutu'al Peace might live;
That we'd prepare against our Hour came on,
And least of all lament the SISTER gone.
Here Sweetness she with Death did reconcile,
And met the Grisly Terrour with a Smile!—
O calm of Mind! O Visage free from Fears!—
But ev'ry Face beside was hid in Tears!
First Griffithina did her Loss deplore,
And in her Looks a kind Dejection wore;
Scarce for her HEIR she had lamented more.
From thence the Fatal News o'er all the Plains
Spread like Distraction to the Nymphs and Swains.
But now the Day she was Interr'd is come
And ne'er was Nymph attended nobler home!
The loud Laments, so Gene'ral ne'er before,
Half reach'd the Opposite Hibernian Shore.
Those that had yet not griev'd her, here were mov'd;
That all might mourn what was by all belov'd.
O Edern! safe her Sacred Relicks keep,
Till she Triumphant 'wakes no more to Sleep:
And on her Tomb permit the Lines I grav'd;—
Tho' for themselves they beg not to be sav'd.

ALMERIA.
Repeat to us, Alexis, what they were
And—if my Tears will give me Leave—I'll hear.

ALEXIS.
To Molde'ring Stone our Memories to trust,
Is to be soon forgot;—'tis Dust to Dust.
Tho' her Good Deeds on Adamant were wrote
With all the Life of Wit, and Strength of Thought,
'Twere yet in vain;—Or Fire, or Time consumes,
And tumbles down our Temples on our Tombs.
If we wou'd have her Vertues still in Sight,
We must on Paper, not on Marble write:
Some happy Genius draw her Image there:—
These meaner Lines will serve to perish here.

ALMERIA.
No; be it thy Attempt to let her live;—
Who knows what Date a faithful Praise may give?
Not one of all the Patrons you bemoan
Remember'd thee in Death as SHE has done:
A Legacy she leaves that may excite
The Coldest Muse to do her Vertues Right.

ALEXIS.
O there a Thousand other Causes are
To pay that Duty,—and the least will bear.
In all Distresses a most ready Friend;
Such she began, and so at last did end.
Beside, I doubly shou'd ungrateful be
If I refus'd her Praise when 'tis desir'd by THEE;
Nor shall the Subject longer be delay'd;—
Inspir'd by thy Request, I'll seek no other Aid.
A Noble Pile to Chastity I'll frame,
With all beside that may advance her Fame,
And set it out in dear Thealma's Name:
Thealma! ev'ry Nymph and Swain shall sing,
Thealma! all the Woods and Vallies ring,
As Ceres just were ripe, or Flora op'ning spring.
Ev'n distant Climes her Praises shall recite,
And you at last confess I've done her Vertues right—
All that Remains, is now to cease our Moan,
And in our Mutu'al Love make up the Blessing gone.