 | Poems and Translations |  |
57
On the Death of a Young Gentleman.
With Joy, blest Youth, we saw thee reach thy Goal;Fair was thy Frame, and beautiful thy Soul;
The Graces and the Muses came combin'd,
These to adorn the Body, those the Mind;
'Twas there we saw the softest Manners meet,
Truth, Sweetness, Judgment, Innocence, and Wit.
So form'd, he flew his Race; 'twas quickly won;
'Twas but a Step, and finish'd when begun.
Nature herself surpriz'd would add no more,
His Life compleat in all its Parts before;
58
By Vertues, not by Days; and thought him old.
So far beyond his Age those Virtues ran,
That in a Boy she found him more than Man.
For Years let Wretches importune the Skies,
Till at the long expence of Anguish wise,
They live, to count their Days by Miseries.
Those win the Prize, who soonest run the Race,
And Life burns brightest in the shortest Space.
So to the Convex-Glass embody'd run,
Drawn to a Point the Glories of the Sun;
At once the gath'ring Beams intensely glow,
And thro' the streighten'd Circle fiercely flow:
In one strong Flame conspire the blended Rays,
Run to a Fire, and croud into a Blaze.
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