For time fhall with his ready pencil stand;
Retouch your figures with his ripening hand;
Mellow your colours, and imbrown the teint;
Add every grace, which time alone can grant;
To future ages fhall your fame convey,
And give more beauties than he takes away.
TO THE MEMORY OF MR. OLDHAM.
FA
AREWELL, too little and too lately known,
Whom I began to think, and call my own:
For fure our fouls were near allied, and thine
Caft in the fame poetic mould with mine.
One common note on either lyre did strike,
And knaves and fools we both abhorr'd alike.
To the fame goal did both our ftudies drive;
The laft fet out, the fooneft did arrive.
'Thus Nifus fell upon the flippery place,
Whilft his young friend perform'd, and won the race.
O early ripe! to thy abundant store
What could advancing age have added more?
It might (what nature never gives the young)
Have taught the fmoothness of thy native tongue.
But fatire needs not thofe, and wit will fhine
Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line.
A noble error, and but seldom made,
When poets are by too much force betray'd.
Thy generous fruits, though gather'd ere their prime, Still fhew'd a quickness; and maturing time
But mellows what we write, to the dull fweets of
}
rhyme.
Once more, hail, and farewel; farewel, thou young,
But ah too fhort, Marcellus of our tongue!
Thy brows with ivy, and with laurels bound;
But fate and gloomy night encompass thee around.
II.
AN O D E.
TO THE PIOUS MEMORY OF THE ACCOMPLISHED YOUNG LADY MRS. ANNE KILLIGREW,
SISTER-ARTS
EXCELLENT IN THE
POESY AND PAINTING,
I.
TH
HOU youngest virgin-daughter of the skies,
Made in the last promotion of the bleft;
Whofe palms, new-pluck'd from paradise,
In fpreading branches more fublimely rise,
Rich with immortal green above the reft:
Whether, adopted to fome neighbouring ftar,
Thou roll'ft above us, in thy wandring race,
Or, in proceffion fix'd and regular,
Mov'd with the heaven majestic pace;
Or, call'd to more fuperior blifs,
Thou treadft, with feraphims, the vast abyss:
Whatever happy region is thy place,
Ceafe thy celeftial fong a little space;
Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine,
Since heaven's eternal year is thine.
Hear then a mortal Muse thy praise rehearse,
In no ignoble verse;
But fuch as thy own voice did practise here,
When thy firft fruits of Poefy were given;
To make thyself a welcome inmate there:
While yet a young probationer,
And candidate of heaven.
II.
If by traduction came thy mind,
Our wonder is the lefs to find
A foul so charming from a stock so good;
Thy father was transfus'd into thy blood:
So wert thou born into a tuneful strain,
An early, rich, and inexhaufted vein.
But if thy pre-existing foul
Was form'd, at firft, with myriads more,
It did through all the mighty poets roll,
Who Greek or Latin laurels wore,
And was that Sappho laft, which once it was before. If so, then cease thy flight, O heaven-born mind! Thou haft no dross to purge from thy rich ore: Nor can thy foul a fairer manfion find,
Than was the beauteous frame she left behind: Return to fill or mend the choir of thy celestial kind,
III. May we prefume to fay, that, at thy birth, 'New joy was sprung in heaven, as well as here on earth.
For
For fure the milder planets did combine
On thy aufpicious horofcope to fhine,
And ev❜n the moft malicious were in trine.
Thy brother-angels at thy birth
Strung each his lyre, and tun'd it high,
That all the people of the sky
Might know a poetefs was born on earth.
And then, if ever, mortal ears
Had heard the mufic of the spheres.
And if no clustering fwarm of bees
On thy fweet mouth distill'd their golden dew,
"Twas that fuch vulgar miracles
Heaven had not leisure to renew:
For all thy bleft fraternity of love Solemniz'd there thy birth, and kept thy holy-day above.
IV.
O gracious God! how far have we
Prophan'd thy heavenly gift of poefy?
Made prostitute and profligate the Muse,
Debas'd to each obscene and impious ufe,
Whofe harmony was first ordain'd above
For tongues of angels, and for hymns of love?
O wretched we! why were we hurry'd down
This lubrique and adulterate age,
(Nay added fat pollutions of our own)
Tincrease the streaming ordures of the stage?
What can we fay t' excufe our fecond fall?
Let this thy vestal, heaven, atone for all:
Her Arethufian stream remains unfoil'd,
VOL. XIX.
M
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