Who the fun's height can raise at pleasure higher,
His lamp illumine, fet his flames on fire.

Yet ftill one blifs, one glory, I forbear,

A darling friend whom near your heart you wear; That lovely youth, my lord, whom you must blame, That I grow thus familiar with your name.

He's friendly, open, in his conduct nice,
Nor ferve these virtues to atone for vice:
Vice he has none, or fuch as none wish less,
But friends indeed, good-nature in excess.
You cannot boast the merit of a choice,

In making him your own, 'twas nature's voice,
Which call'd too loud by man to be withstood,
Pleading a tye far nearer than of blood;
Similitude of manners, fuch a mind,
As makes you lefs the wonder of mankind.
Such ease his common converse recommends,
As he ne'er felt a paffion, but his friend's;
Yet fix'd his principles, beyond the force
Of all beneath the fun, to bend his course
Thus the tall cedar, beautiful and fair,
Flatters the motions of the wanton air;
Salutes each paffing breeze with head reclin'd;
The pliant branches dance in every wind:
But fix'd the ftem her upright ftate maintains,
And all the fury of the North difdains.

How are you bless'd in such a matchless friend
Alas! with me the joys of friendship end;

N 4

O Harrison !

* His Lordship's Nephew, who took Orders.

YOUNG,

O Harrison! I muft, I will complain

Tears footh the foul's diftrefs, though fhed in vain.

Didft thou return, and blefs thy native shore

With welcome peace, and is my friend no more?

Thy talk was early done, and I must own
Death kind to thee, but ah! to thee alone.
But 'tis in me a vanity to mourn,

The forrows of the great thy tomb adorn ;
Strafford and Bolingbroke the lofs perceive,
They grieve, and make thee envy'd in thy grave.
With aking heart, and a foreboding mind,
I night to day in painful journey join'd,
When first inform'd of his approaching fate;
But reach'd the partner of my foul too late :
'Twas paft, his cheek was cold, that tuneful tongue,
Which Ifis charm'd with its melodious fong,
Now languish'd, wanted ftrength to fpeak his pain,
Scarce rais'd a feeble groan, and funk again :
Each art of life, in which he bore a part,
Shot like an arrow through my bleeding heart.
To what ferv'd all his promis'd wealth and power,
But more to load that most unhappy hour?

Yet ftill prevail'd the greatness of his mind;
That, not in health, or life itself confin'd,
Felt through his mortal pangs Britannia's peace,
Mounted to joy, and fmil'd in death's embrace.
His spirit now just ready to resign,

No longer now his own, no longer mine,
He grafps my hand, his fwimming eye-balls roll,.
My hand he grafps, and enters in my foud;,

Them

Then with a groan-fupport me, O! beware
Of holding worth, however great, too dear!
Pardon, my lord, the privilege of grief,
That in untimely freedom feeks relief;
To better fate your love I recommend,
O! may you never lofe fo dear a friend!
May nothing interrupt your happy hours;
Enjoy the bleffings peace on Europe showers:
Nor yet difdain those bleffings to adorn ;
To make the Muse immortal, you was born.
Sing; and in latest time, when story 's dark,
This period your furviving fame shall mark;
Save from the gulph of years this glorious age,
And thus illuftrate their hiftorian's page.

The crown of Spain in doubtful balance hung, -
And Anna Britain fway'd, when Granville fung:
That noted year Europa fheath'd her sword,

When this great man was first faluted lord.

*The Author here bewails that moft ingenious gentleman, Mr. William Harrifon, Fellow of New College, Oxon. YOUNG.-[See a more particular ac-count of him in the "Supplement to Swift."]

TWO

TWO

EPISTLES

то

MR. POPE,

CONCERNING

THE AUTHORS OF THE AGE.

M DCC XXX.