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Would wonder, when he turn'd the volume o'er,
And after some few leaves should find no more,
Nought but a blank remain, a dead void space,
A step of life that promis'd such a race.
We must not, dare not think, that heaven began
A child, and could not finish him a man;
Reflecting what a mighty store was laid
Of rich materials, and a odel made :
The coft already furnish'd; fo beftow'd,
As more was never to one foul allow'd :
Yet after this profusion spent in vain,
Nothing but mould'ring afhes to remain,
I guess not, left I split upon the shelf,
Yet durft I guess, heaven kept it for himself;
And giving us the use, did soon recal,
Ere we could spare, the mighty principal.

Thus then he disappear’d, was rarify’d;
For 'tis improper speech to say he dy'd :
He was exhal'd ; his great Creator drew
His fpirit, as the sun the morning dew.
'Tis fin produces death ; and he had none
But the taint Adam left on ev'ry fon.
He added not, he was so pure, so good,
'Twas but th’original forfeit of his blood :
And that so little, that the river ran
More clear than the corrupted fount began.
Nothing remain'd of the first muddy clay;
The length of course had wash'd it in the

So deep, and yet so clear, we might behold
The gravel bottom, and that bottom gold.

As such we lov'd, admir'd, almost ador'd,
Gave all the tribute mortals could afford.
Perhaps we gave so much, the powers above
Grew angry at our fuperftitious love :
For when we more than human homage pay,
The charming cause is juftly snatch'd away.


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Thus was the crime not his, but ours alone :
And yet we murmur that he went so soon ;
Tho'miracles are short and rarely shown.

Hear 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.


Young Mr. ROGERS of Gloucestershire.

F gentle blood, his parents only treasure,


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 ftate ;
But, knowing heaven his home, to fhun delay,
He leap'd o'er age, and took the shortest way,


On the Death of Mr. PURCELL.

Set to Music by Dr. BLOW.


ARK how the lark and linnet fing 3

With rival notes
They ftrain 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 lift'ning filently obey.

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.

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 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 pleasʼd alone with Purcell's lays,

Nor know to mend their choice.

EPITAPH on the




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 coft,
Here fadly summing, what he had, and loft.

Come, virgins, ere in equal bands ye join,
Come first, and offer at her sacred shrine;
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.

EPITAPH on Sir PALMES FAIRBONE's Tomb in Westminster-Abbey.

Sacred to the immortal memory of Sir Palmes Fair

BONE, Knight, Governor of Tangier; in execution of which command, he was mortally wounded by a Thot from the Moors, then besieging the town, in, the forty-fixth year of his age. October 24, 1680.


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E sacred relics, which your marble keep,

Here, undiiturb’d by wars, in quiet sleep : 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 fiege his early valour knew, Where Turkish blood did his young hands imbrue. From thence returning with deserv'd applause, Against the Moors his well-felh'd sword he draws; The same the courage, and the same the cause. His youth and age, his life and death, combine, As in some great and regular design, All of a piece throughout, and all divine. Still nearer heav'n his virtues shone more bright, Like rising flames expanding in their height; The martyr's glory crown'd the soldiers fight. More bravely British general never fell, Nor general's death was e'er reveng'd so wells Which his pleas'd eyes beheld before their close, Follow'd by thousand victims of his foes. To his lamented loss for time to come His pious widow confecrates this tomb.

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