Hearn then, ye mournful parents, and divide That love in many, which in one was ty'd. That individual bleffing is no more, But multiply'd in your remaining store. The flame's difpers'd, but does not all expire; The sparkles blaze, tho not the globe of fire. Love him by parts, in all your num'rous race, And from those parts form one collected grace; Then, when you have refin❜d to that degree,

Imagine all in one, and think that one is he.

U PON

Young Mr. ROGERS of Gloucefterfhire.

F gentle blood, his parents only treasure,

OF

Their lafting forrow, and their vanish'd
pleasure,

Adorn'd with features, virtues, wit, and grace,
A large provifion for fo fhort a race;

More mod'rate gifts might have prolong'd his date,
Too early fitted for a better state;

But, knowing heaven his home, to shun delay,

He leap'd o'er age, and took the shortest way.

On the DEATH of

Mr. PURCEL

Set to MUSIC by Dr. BLOW.

L.

1.

ARK how the lark and linnet fing;
With rival notes

MA

They ftrain their warbling throats,
To welcome in the spring.

But in the clofe of night,

When Philomel begins her heavenly lay,

They cease their mutual spite,

Drink in her mufic with delight,

And lift'ning filently obey.

II.

So ceas'd the rival crew, when Purcell came; They fung no more, or only fung his fame : Struck dumb, they all admir'd the godlike man: The godlike man,

Alas! too foon retired,

As he too late began.

We beg not hell our Orpheus to restore :

Had he been there,

Their fovereign's fear

Had fent him back before.

The power of harmony too well they knew: He long ere this had tun'd their jarring sphere, And left no hell below.

III.

The heavenly choir, who heard his notes from high,
Let down the scale of music from the sky:
They handed him along,

And all the way he taught, and all the way they fung
Ye breth'ren of the lyre, and tuneful voice,
Lament his lot; but at your own rejoice :
Now live fecure, and linger out your days;
The gods are pleas'd alone with Purcell's lays,
Nor know to mend their choice.

EPITAPH

ΟΝ ΤΗ Ε

LADY WHITMORE.

AIR, kind, and true, a treasure each alone,

FA

A wife, a mistress, and a friend in one, Reft in this tomb, rais'd at thy husband's coft, Here fadly fumming, what he had, and lost.

Come, virgins, ere in equal bands ye join, Come firft, and offer at her facred fhrine; Pray but for half the virtues of this wife, Compound for all the reft, with longer life;And with your vows, like hers, may be return'd, So lov'd when living, and when dead fo mourn'd.

EP IT A PH

6 N

Sir PALMES FAIRBONE's Tomb

I N

WESTMINSTER-ABBEY.

Sacred to the immortal memory of Sir PALMES FAIRBONE, Knight, Governor of Tangier; in execution of which command, he was mortally wounded by a shot from the Moors, then befieging the town, in the forty-fixth year of his age. October 24, 1680.

your

marble keep,

E facred relics, which Here, undisturb'd by wars, in quiet fleep : Discharge the truft, which, when it was below, Fairbone's undaunted foul did undergo, And be the town's Palladium from the foe. Alive and dead these walls he will defend: Great actions great examples must attend. The Candian fiege his early valor knew, Where Turkish blood did his young hands imbrue.