VIII.

Upon young Master ROGERS of Gloucestershire.

OF gentle blood, his parents' only treasure,
Their lasting sorrow, and their vanish'd pleasure;
Adorn'd with features, virtues, wit, and grace,
A large provision for so short a race;

More mod'rate gifts might have prolong'd his date,
Too early fitted for a better state;

But, knowing heav'n his home, to shun delay,
He leap'd o'er age, and took the shortest way.

IX.

ON THE DEATH OF

MR. PURCELL.

Set to Music by Dr. BLOW.

MARK how the lark and linnet sing:

With rival notes

They strain their warbling throats,

To welcome in the spring.

But, in the close of night;

When Philomel begins her heav'nly lay;

They cease their mutual spite,

Drink in her music with delight,

And, list'ning, silently obey."

II.

So ceas'd the rival crew, when Purcell came;
They sung no more, or only sung his fame:

Struck dumb, they all admir'd the godlike man:

The godlike man,

Alas! too soon retir'd,

As he too late began.

We beg not Hell our Orpheus, to restore:

Had he been there,

Their sov'reign's fear

Had sent him back before.

The pow'r of harmony too well they knew:* He, long ere this, had tun'd their jarring sphere, And left no Hell below.

III.

The heav'nly choir, who heard his notes from high, Let down the scale of music from the sky:

They handed him along;

And all the way he taught, and all the

sung:

way they

Ye brethren of the lyre and tuneful voice!
Lament his lot, but at your own rejoice :
Now live secure, and linger out your days;
The gods are pleas'd, alone, with Purcell's lays,
Nor know to mend their choice.

X.

EPITAPH

ON THE LADY WHITMORE.

FAIR, kind, and true! a treasure each alone,
A wife, a mistress, and a friend, in one!

* Rather they'd know.

Rest in this tomb, rais'd at thy husband's cost,
Here sadly summing, what he had, and lost.

Come, Virgins! ere in equal bands ye join, Come first and offer at her sacred shrine; Pray but for half the virtues of this wife, Compound for all the rest, with longer life; And wish your vows, like hers, may be return'd; So lov'd when living, and when dead so mourn'd.

XI.

EPITAPH

ON SIR PALMES FAIRBONE'S TOMB IN

WESTMINSTER-ABBEY.

Sacred to the immortal Memory of Sir PALMES FAIRBONE, Knight, Governor of Tangier; in Execution of which Command he was mortally wounded by a Shot from the Moors, then besieging the Town, in the forty-sixth Year of his Age, October 24, 1680.

Y

E sacred Relics! which your marble keep, Here, undisturb'd by wars, in quiet sleep: Discharge the trust which, when it was below, Fairbone's undaunted soul did undergo, And be the town's Palladium from the foe. Alive, and dead, these walls he will defend : Great actions great examples must attend. The Candian siege his early valour knew, Where Turkish blood did his young hands imbrue:

From thence returning with deserv'd applause, Against the Moors his well-flesh'd sword he draws;

The same the courage, and the same the cause. His youth and age, his life and death combine, As in some great and regular design,

All of a piece throughout, and all divine.
Still, nearer heav'n, his virtues shone more
bright,

Like rising flames expanding in their height;
The marty's glory crown'd the soldier's fight.
More bravely, British general never fell;
Nor general's death was e'er reveng'd so well;
Which his pleas'd eyes beheld before their close,
Follow'd by thousand victims of his foes.
To his lamented loss for time to come,
His pious widow consecrates this tomb.

XII.

On the Monument of a fair maiden Lady, who died at Bath, and is there interred.

BELOW

ELOW this marble monument is laid

All that Heav'n wants of this celestial maid.
Preserve, O sacred Tomb! thy trust consign'd;
The mould was made on purpose for the mind.
And she would lose, if at the latter day,
One atom could be mix'd of other clay.
Such were the features of her heav'nly face,
Her limbs were form'd with such harmonious
grace,-

So faultless was the frame, as if the whole
Had been an emanation of the soul;
Which her own inward symmetry reveal'd,
And like a picture shone, in glass anneal'd,-
Or like the sun eclips'd, with shaded light:
Too piercing else, to be sustain'd by sight.
Each thought was visible that roll'd within:
As thro' a crystal case the figur'd hours are seen;
And Heav'n did this transparent veil provide,
Because she had no guilty thought to hide.
All white, a virgin-saint, she sought the skies;
For Marriage, tho' it sullies not, it dies.*
High tho' her wit, yet humble was her mind;
As if she could not, or she would not find
How much her worth transcended all her kind.
Yet she had learn'd so much of heav'n below,
That when arriv'd, she scarce had more to know:
But only to refresh the former hint,
And read her Maker in a fairer print.
So pious, as she had no time to spare

For human thoughts, but was confin'd to pray'r.
Yet in such charities she pass'd the day,
'Twas wond'rous how she found an hour to pray.
A soul so calm, it knew not ebbs or flows,
Which passion could but curl, not discompose.
A female softness, with a manly mind;
A daughter duteous, and a sister kind;
In sickness patient, and in death resign'd.
*Dyes, probably, was intended. EDITOR.

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