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For when their gifts too lavishly are plac'd,
Soon they repent, and will not make them last.
For fure it was too bountiful a dole,
The mother's features, and the father's foul.
Then thus he cry'd: the morn bespoke the news:
The morning did her chearful light diffuse:
But fee how fuddenly fhe chang'd her face,
And brought on clouds and rain, the day's difgrace;
Juft fuch, Amyntas, was thy promis'd race.
What charms adorn'd thy youth, where nature smil'd,
And more than man was given us in a child!
His infancy was ripe: a foul fublime
In years fo tender that prevented time:
Heaven gave him all at once; then fnatch'd away,
Ere mortals all his beauties could furvey:
Juft like the flower that buds and withers in a day.
The mother, lovely, though with grief oppreft,
Reclin'd his dying head upon her breast,
The mournful family ftood all around;
groan was heard, one univerfal found;
All were in floods of tears and endless forrow drown'd.
So dire a fadness sat on every look,
Ev'n death repented he had given the ftroke.
He griev'd his fatal work had been ordain'd,
But promis'd length of life to thofe who yet remain'd.
The mother's and her eldest daughter's grace,
It seems, had brib'd him to prolong their space.
The father bore it with undaunted foul,
Like one who durft his destiny controul:
Yet with becoming grief he bore his part,
Refign'd his fon, but not refign'd his heart.
Patient as Job; and may he live to see,
Like him, a new increafing family!
Such is my wifh, and fuch my prophefy. For yet, my friend, the beauteous mould remains; Long may she exercise her fruitful pains! But, ah! with better hap, and bring a race More lafting, and endued with equal grace! Equal fhe may, but farther none can go: For he was all that was exact below.
Damon, behold yon breaking purple cloud;
Hear'st thou not hymns and fongs divinely loud?
There mounts Amyntas; the young cherubs play
About their godlike mate, and fing him on his way.
He cleaves the liquid air, behold he flies,
And every moment gains upon the skies.
The new-come guest admires th' ætherial state,
The fapphire portal, and the golden gate;
And now admitted in the fhining throng,
He fhows the paffport which he brought along.
His paffport is his innocence and grace,
Well known to all the natives of the place.
Now fing, ye joyful angels, and admire
Your brother's voice that comes to mend your quire: Sing you, while endless tears our eyes bestow;
For like Amyntas none is left below.
ON THE DEATH OF A VERY YOUNG GENTLEMAN.
E who could view the book of destiny,
And read whatever there was writ of thee,
O charming youth, in the firft opening page,
So many graces in fo green an age,
Such wit, fuch modefty, fuch ftrength of mind,
A foul at once fo manly, and fo kind;
Would wonder, when he turn'd the volume o'er,
And after fome few leaves fhould find no more,
Nought but a blank remain, a dead void space,
A step of life that promis'd fuch 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 model made:
The coft already furnish'd; fo bestow'd,
As more was never to one foul allow'd:
Yet, after this profufion spent in vain,
Nothing but mouldering ashes to remain,
I guess not, left I fplit upon the shelf,
Yet, durft I guess, heaven kept it for himself;
And giving us the use, did foon recal,
Ere we could fpare, the mighty principal.
Thus then he disappear'd, was rarify'd;
For 'tis improper fpeech to fay he dy'd:
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 every 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 firft muddy clay;
The length of course had wash'd it in the way:
So deep, and yet fo clear, we might behold
The gravel bottom, and that bottom gold.
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 superstitious 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 so soon;
Though miracles are fhort and rarely fhown.
Hear 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 fparkles blaze, though not the globe of fire.
Love him by parts, in all your numerous 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.
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 so short a race;
More moderate 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. PURCELL.
SET TO MUSIC BY DR. BLOW.
ARK how the lark and linnet fing:
With rival notes
They strain their warbling throats,
To welcome in the fpring.
But in the clofe of night,
When Philomel begins her heavenly lay,
They cease their mutual spite,
Drink in her mufic with delight,
And listening filently obey.
So ceas'd the rival crew, when Purcell came;
They fung no more, or only fung his fame: