And giving us the use, did foon recal,
Ere we could spare, the mighty principal.
Thus then he disappear'd, was rarify'd;
For 'tis improper speech to say he dy'ď:
He was exhal'd; his great Creator drew
His fpirit, as the fun 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 fo pure, fo good,
'Twas but th' original forfeit of his blood:
And that fo 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 fo clear, we might behold
The gravel bottom, and that bottom gold.

way:

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

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

7

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.

UPON

Young Mr. ROGERS of Gloucestershire.

Ο OF

F gentle blood, his parents only treasure,
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 ftate;

But, knowing heaven his home, to fhun delay,

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

Mr.

On the DEATH of

PURCELL.

Set to Music by Dr. BLOW.

I.

ARK how the lark and linnet fing;
With rival notes

MAR

They strain their warbling throats,
To welcome in the fpring.

But in the close 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 mufic 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.

EPITAP

LADY

FAI

ON THE

H

WHITMORE.

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

Come, virgins, ere in equal bands ye join, Come firft, and offer at her facred 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 fo mourn'd.

EPI