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Hearn then, ye mournful parents, and divide That love in many, which in one was ty’d. That individual blessing is no more, But multiply'd in your remaining store. The flame's dispers’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 Gloucestershire.

F gentle blood, his parents only treasure, O Their lasting forrow, and their vanish'd

pleasure, Adorn'd with features, virtues, wit, and grace, A large provision for fo short 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 fhun delay, He leap'd o'er age, and took the shortest way.

On the DEATH of

Mr.

P U R C E L L.

Set to Music by Dr. BLOW.

1.

MA

ARK how the lark and linnet fing ;

With rival notes
They strain their warbling throats,

To welcome in the spring.

But in the close of night,
When Philomel begins her heavenly lay,

They cease their mutual spite,
Drink in her music with delight,
And list’ning silently obey.

II.

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

The godlike man,
Alas! too soon retired,
As he too late began.

We beg not hell our Orpheus to restore:

Had he been there,

Their sovereign's fear

Had sent 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,
Andalltheway he taught, and all the way they sung
Ye breth'ren of the lyre, and tuneful voice,
Lament his lot; but at your own rejoice :
Now live secure, and linger out your days ;
The gods are pleas'd alone with Purcell's lays,

Nor know to mend their choice.

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Ε Ρ Ι Τ Α Ρ. Η

Ο Ν Τ Η Ε.

L A D Y

WH I T M O R E.

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AIR, kind, and true, a treasure each alone,
A wife, a mistress, and a friend in

one, Rest in this tomb, rais'd at thy husband's cost, Here fadly fumming, what he had, and loft.

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 wish your vows, like hers, may be return’d,
So lov'd when living, and when dead so mourn'd.

E PI

Ε Ρ Ι Τ Α Ρ Η

ÓN

Sir PALMES FAIRBONE's Tomb

IN

WESTMINSTER-À B B EY.

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 besieging the town, in the forty-sixth year of his age. October 24, 1680.

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E sacred relics, which

your Here, undisturb'd by wars, in quiet fleep : Discharge the trust, which, when it was below, Fairbone's undaunted soul 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 siege his early valor knew, Where Turkish blood did his young hands imbrue. VOL. II.

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