A new collection of Original poems Never Printed in any miscellany. By the Author of Sir Walter Raleigh [i.e. George Sewell] |
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TO THE Memory of my dear Friend, Sir Samuel Garth, M. D. |
 | A new collection of Original poems |  |
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TO THE Memory of my dear Friend, Sir Samuel Garth, M. D.
The Praise, that in thy Life we dar'd not pay,
Is safely offer'd to the silent Clay:
Heroes and Poets are of equal Fame,
And after Death their Shrines, and Incense claim.
Is safely offer'd to the silent Clay:
Heroes and Poets are of equal Fame,
And after Death their Shrines, and Incense claim.
O! may the Lays cast Lustre o'er thy Urn,
Like Lamps that in sepulchral Marbles burn,
Which waiting on the Minutes of Decay,
Watchfully pious waste themselves away.
Scandal and Envy fly the sacred Ground,
Or come with new-felt Awe, and fear to wound.
Thus Lions once forgot their wonted Rage,
When the great Prophet lodg'd within their Cage.
Like Lamps that in sepulchral Marbles burn,
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Watchfully pious waste themselves away.
Scandal and Envy fly the sacred Ground,
Or come with new-felt Awe, and fear to wound.
Thus Lions once forgot their wonted Rage,
When the great Prophet lodg'd within their Cage.
Doubtful of Choice, whom first shall I commend,
The Man, the Patriot, Poet, or the Friend?
In single Characters too rarely met,
But all in Thee, like Gemms in Circles set.
So common Trees their single Fruits produce,
But the rich Vine in Clusters lends its Juice.
The Man, the Patriot, Poet, or the Friend?
In single Characters too rarely met,
But all in Thee, like Gemms in Circles set.
So common Trees their single Fruits produce,
But the rich Vine in Clusters lends its Juice.
While other lumpish Wits have labour'd long,
At a dull Satyr, or a nothing Song;
Thy quicker Genius with a happy Flight,
Shot to the destin'd Mark, and hit the White;
Thus heavy Fowl, scarce flutter by our Eyes,
The Lark in Minutes mounts from Earth to Skies.
At a dull Satyr, or a nothing Song;
Thy quicker Genius with a happy Flight,
Shot to the destin'd Mark, and hit the White;
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The Lark in Minutes mounts from Earth to Skies.
Whatever Virtues of the social kind,
Old Sages taught, or Modern Wit refin'd;
Grew from thy Nature as its proper Root,
Art gave them Flow'rs, and Learning solid Fruit.
Well dist thou chuse a Science from the rest,
Where thy Humanity might shine confest,
To shew Heav'ns Blessings not bestow'd in vain,
Smooth the sick Couch, and calm the Midnight Pain.
To make the World unmock'd by happy Skies,
And bid the Sun with chearful Lustre rise.
Old Sages taught, or Modern Wit refin'd;
Grew from thy Nature as its proper Root,
Art gave them Flow'rs, and Learning solid Fruit.
Well dist thou chuse a Science from the rest,
Where thy Humanity might shine confest,
To shew Heav'ns Blessings not bestow'd in vain,
Smooth the sick Couch, and calm the Midnight Pain.
To make the World unmock'd by happy Skies,
And bid the Sun with chearful Lustre rise.
Thrice happy Skill! when thy Professors know
The secret Joy of mitigating Woe;
Studious of Health, unmindful of the Gain,
While they give Aid, they share the Suff'rer's Pain.
O'er the pale Virgin's fading Roses mourn,
And sigh—till sickning Chiefs for Conquest burn.
Such, Garth, were Marks of thy excelling Art,
These built a College in each grateful Heart.
The secret Joy of mitigating Woe;
Studious of Health, unmindful of the Gain,
While they give Aid, they share the Suff'rer's Pain.
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And sigh—till sickning Chiefs for Conquest burn.
Such, Garth, were Marks of thy excelling Art,
These built a College in each grateful Heart.
O! may the pious Youth to Thee return,
The Grief once destin'd to his Parent's Urn;
The Tears thy Pow'r from Nations us'd to save,
For dying Patriots—flow upon thy Grave!
But most the Muse with tuneful Sorrow strive
To deck thy Tomb, and keep thy Fame alive.
The Grief once destin'd to his Parent's Urn;
The Tears thy Pow'r from Nations us'd to save,
For dying Patriots—flow upon thy Grave!
But most the Muse with tuneful Sorrow strive
To deck thy Tomb, and keep thy Fame alive.
Vain Hopes in them—For as when Kings are slain,
The Palaces they rais'd their Pride maintain,
So to late Times thy polish'd Works shall stand,
Spreading the Glory of the Builder's Hand,
With thy own Nassau, and thy Malbro live,
And equal Fame receive, and equal give.
The Palaces they rais'd their Pride maintain,
So to late Times thy polish'd Works shall stand,
Spreading the Glory of the Builder's Hand,
With thy own Nassau, and thy Malbro live,
And equal Fame receive, and equal give.
| A new collection of Original poems | |