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No wAnd call the play with your bough. You sing,
Henceforth, no learned youths beneath you sing,
And call the learned youths to hear;
But all, with sad solemnity,
Mute and unmoved be,
To him my Muse made haste with every strain, Whilst it was new and warm yet from the brain : He lov'd my worthless rhymes, and, like a friend,
Would find out something to commend. Hence now, my Muse! thou canst not me delight:
Be this my latest verse,
With which I now adorn his hearse;
Had I a wreath of bays about my brow,
It rage and crackle there.
Cypress, which tombs does beautify:
Not Phæbus griev'd, so much as I,
Large was his soul; as large a soul as e'er
But low and humble as his grave:
So high, that all the Virtues there did come,
As to their chiefest seat
Conspicuous and great ; ..
He scorn'd this busy world below, and all
Triumphant o'er the sins of youth.
That shine with beams like flame,
Yet burn not with the same,
Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught,
In such a short mortality.
Still did the notions throng
About his eloquent tongue,
So strong a wit did Nature to him frame,
*Tempering that mighty sea below. Oh! had he liv'd in Learning's world, what bound
Would have been able to control
His over-powering soul ! We ’ave lost in him arts that not yet are found.
His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit,
Retir'd, and gave to them their due :
Though his own searching mind before
Was so with notions written o'er
So many virtues join'd in him, as we
As much as they could ever teach.
And all their sacred motions steer,
Just like the first and highest sphere, Which wheels about, and turns all heaven one way.
With as much zeal, devotion, piety,
Weeping all debts out ere he slept:
Like the sun's laborious light,
Which still in water sets at night, Unsullied with his journey of the day.
Wondrous young man! why wert thou made so good,
Thou ripe, and yet thy life but green!
Nor could thy friends take their last sad farewell ;
But danger and infectious death
Maliciously seiz'd on that breath Where life, spirit, pleasure, always us’d to dwell.
But happy thou, ta'en from this frantic age,
And, wheresoe'er thou casts'st thy view,
Upon that white and radiant crew, See'st not a soul cloth'd with more light than thine.
And, if the glorious saints cease not to know Their wretched friends who fight with life below, Thy flame to me does still the same abide,
Only more pure and rarefy'd. There, whilst immortal hymns thou dost rehearse,
Thou dost with holy pity see
Our dull and earthly poesy, Where grief and misery can be join'd with verse.
IN IMITATION OF HORACE's ODE,
“ Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa “ Perfusus," fc.
Lib. I. Od. 5.
To whom now, Pyrrha, art thou kind ?
To what heart-ravish'd lover Dost thou thy golden locks unbind,
Thy hidden sweets discover,
And with large bounty open set. All the bright stores of thy rich cabinet?
Ah, simple youth ! how oft will he
Of thy chang’d faith complain! And his own fortunes find to be
So airy and so vain,
Of so cameleon-like an hue,
How oft, alas! will he admire
The blackness of the skies ! Trembling to hear the wind sound higher,
And see the billows rise !
Poor unexperienc'd he,