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On the last Judgment, and the Happi
ness of the Saints in Heaven.
Done from the Latin of J. Gerhard.
N that bless'd Day, from ev'ry Part, the Just,
Rais'd from the liquid Deep or niould’ring Duit, The various Products of Time’s fruitful Womb, All of paft Ages, present and to come, In full Assembly shall at once resort, And meet within high Heaven's capacious Court: There famous Names reyer'd in Days of old, Our
great Fore-fathers there we shall behold, From whom old Stocks and Ancestry began,, And worthily in long Succession ran; The reverend Sires with Pleasure shall we greet, Attentive hear, while faithful they repeat Full’many a vertuous Deed, and many a noble Feat. There all those tender Ties, which here below, Or Kindred, or more sacred Friendship know, Firm, conftant, and unchangeable thall grow. Refin'd from Passion, and the Dregs of Sense, A better, truer, dearer Love from thence, Its everlasting Being shall commence: There, like their Days, their Joys shall ne'er be done? No Night Thall rise, to fhade Heay'n's glorious Sun, But one eternal Holy-Day go on,
To the Tune of, Grim King of the Ghosts:
Espairing beside a clear Stream,
A Shepherd forsaken was laid ; And while a false Nymph was his Theine,
A Willow supported his Head., The Wind that blew over the Plain,
To his Sighs with a Sigh did reply; And the Brook, in return to his Pain, Ran mournfully murinuring by.
Alas, filly Swain that I was!
Thus fadly complaining he cry'd, When first I beheld that fair face,
/Twere better by far I had dy'd. She talk'd, and I bler'd the dear Tongue ;
When the smild, 'twas a Pleasure too great. I liften'd, and cry'd, 'when the sung,
11 tj. Was Nightingale ever to sweet?
How fuolinh I was to believe
She could dpat on fo lowly a Clown,
To forsake the fine Folk of the Town?
So kind and so conftant would prove; Or go clad like our Maidens in Grey,
Or live in a Cottage on Love?
What tho' I have Skill to complain,
Tho’the Muses my Temples have crown'd; What tho' when they hear my soft Strain,
The Virgins fit weeping around. Ah, COLIN, thy Hopes are in vain,
Thy Pipe and thy Lawrel refign; Thy false one inclines to a Swain,
Whose Mufick is sweeter than thine.
And you, my Companions fo dear,
-Who forrow to see me betray'd,
Forbear to.accuse the false Maid.
'Tis in vain from my Fortune to Ay, 'Twas hers to be false and to change,
'Tis inine to be constant and die.
If while my hard Fate I sustain,
In her Breast any Pity is found,
The Thelast humble Boon that I crave,
Is to shade me with Cypress and Yew ; And when she looks down on my Grave,
Let her own that her Shepherd was truc.
Then to her new Love let her go,
And deck her in Golden Array, Bc finest at ev'ry fine Show,
And frolick it all the long Day; While COLIN, forgotten and gone,
No more shall be talkd of, or feer, Unless when beneath the pale Moon,
His Ghost shall glide over the Greorto
EPIGRAM on a Lady who shed her
Hilft maudlin Whigs deplore their CATO's Fate,
Still with dry Eyes che Tory CĘLIA sate:
Imitated in Latin.
Lorat fata fui dum cætera Turba Catonis,
Ecce! occulis ficcis Cælia fixa feder: