Page images
PDF
EPUB

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.

ELEGIES

ELEGIES

AND

EPITAPH S.

FA

I.

TO THE MEMORY OF MR. OLDHAM.

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 studies drive;
The last 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 ftore

What could advancing age have added more?
It might (what nature never gives the young)
Have taught the smoothness of thy native tongue.
But fatire needs not thofe, and wit will shine
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

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,

EXCELLENT IN THE TWO SISTER-ARTS

THO

POESY AND PAINTING,

I.

HOU youngeft virgin-daughter of the skies,
Made in the laft promotion of the bleft;
Whofe palms, new-pluck'd from paradise,
In fpreading branches more fublimely rife,
Rich with immortal green above the rest:
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 bliss,

Thou treadft, with feraphims, the vast abyss:
Whatever happy region is thy place,
Ceafe thy celeftial fong a little space;

OF

Thou

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 thyfelf 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 fo 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 inexhausted vein.
But if thy pre-existing foul

Was form'd, at first, 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 fo, then cease thy flight, O heaven-born mind! Thou haft no drofs to purge from thy rich ore: Nor can thy foul a fairer mansion 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 say, that, at thy birth, New joy was fprung 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 diftill'd their golden dew,
"Twas that fuch vulgar miracles

Heaven had not leifure 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 obfcene and impious ufe,
Whofe harmony was firft 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 say t' excuse our second fall?
Let this thy veftal, heaven, atone for all:
Her Arethufian ftream remains unfoil'd,

VOL. XIX.

M

Unmix'd

« PreviousContinue »