Now your bleft Fields their Summer Liv'ry wear,
Their Fruits your loaded Trees in Season bear;
But Learning flourishes throughout the Year.
From your full Spring o'er Britain's Ifle it ftreams,
And spreads like Ifis, when the meets the Thames.
Rear'd on her Banks, the Mufes Lawrel grows,
Adorn'd by yours, adorning others Brows.
Sweet are her Streams, fweet the furrounding Air,
But fweeter are the Songs the cechoes there.
There the Great Ormond's daily Praife is fung,
There Addison's harmonious Harp is ftrung,
And there Lucretius learnt the English Tongue.
Well might I here the large Account purfue,
But you have stopt me ---- for I write to you.
Methinks I fee the tuneful Sifters ride,
Mounted like Sea-Nymphs on the swelling Tide,
The Silver Swans are filent while they play,
Augufta hears their. Notes, and puts to Sea,
Dryden and Congreve meet them half the way.
All wafted by their own fweet Voices move,
And all is Harmony --

And all that's Harmony, is Joy and Love.
All are in all the tuneful Numbers skill'd,
And now Apollo boasts his Confort fill'd.

}

Here liften while our English Maro fings, Born like the Mantuan Swan on equal Wings: Mark the great Numbers, mind the lofty Song, The Senfe as clear and juft, the Lines as ftrong. Hark yonder where the Mourning Bride complains, And melt with pity at the moving Strains : Wait the Conclufion, then allay your Grief, Vice meets with Ruin, Virtue with Relief: Walk thither, and the charming Mufick leads, To murm'ring Waters, and enchanting Meads: Mark by the River-fide, along the Plain, The dancing Shepherdefs, and piping Swain, Then fee him take the Kifs that Crowns his Pain. There hearken where the knowing Poet fings Mysterious Nature, and the Seeds of Things;

}

How in the teeming Earth hard Metals grow,
From what far diftant Fountains Rivers flow,
What moves the Stars above, and Seas below.
Now fee the charming Confort fail along,
Each tunes his Harp, and each prepares his Song:
To the Mufaum fee them all repair,

And fee them all receive their Laurels there.
A learn'd and rev'rend Circle ready ftands,
To Crown the Candidates with willing Hands.
Aldrich, who can the firft large Portion boast,
Knows, loves and cherishes the Mufes moft:
Who gives ev'n Chrift's-Church its peculiar Grace,
The first in Merit, as the first in Place.

O! Friend, have I not reafon to complain

Of Fate, that fhut me out from fuch a Train?
For that, who would not shift the Tragick Scene?
Tho' tir'd of restless rambling up and down,

Or a more reftlefs Settlement in Town:
Chang'd in the reft, let this my Love commend,
Talden, believe I never chang'd my Friend.

From London-Derry,

Auguft 3. 1699.

}

MA

ODE on the Death of the Marquis of BLANDFORD.

SUCH' is the Doom of unrelenting Fate,

That greatest Hopes have shortest Date: Our Pleafures vanish, our Designs are croft, And Gifts moft juftly priz'd are fooneft loft: Death has the choice of Things on Earth, And, waiting clofely from their Birth, The Pride of Nature ftill delights to blast, And, uncreated, will the World out-laft.

II.

The World, with Bleffings ill fupply'd before,
Is made by one Misfortune poor;
The fairest Perfon, and beft temper'd Mind,
And sharpeft Wit with fofteft Nature join'd,
Engaging Humour, weighty Sense,
And Joy, the Gift of Innocence,

No more in one unrival'd Youth we find;
His Soul is gone in whom those Graces fhin'd.

III.

To Heav'n 'tis gone, ordain'd for Blifs above
'Twas here all Harmony and Love::
There happy live, and while you reft fecure
From all the Pangs your weeping Friends endure,
Oh pity thofe that mourn below!

And hear those doleful Numbers flow;
Too mean a Tribute, and too bold a Flight ;
What Mufe can foar to your Immortal height?

IV.

See envious Grief, that fcarce your Parents knew,
Still banish'd from their fight by you,
With difmal Force expels their Native Grace,
And takes Revenge on all their Beauteous Race:
It brings rude Horror, wild Defpair,

And ftrikes their Breafts, and tears their Hair
For you they call, for you fond Wishes fend,
The beft Relation, and the kindest Friend.

V.

'Tis fruitless all: Let Reafon now return;

Why fhou'd the Wife fo vainly Mourn ?

Why fend Complaints where no Redress is found? Our Dooms are next, whofe Years roll fwiftly round Thou fly'ft, O Time, to ftop our Breath,

Thou faithful Minifter of Death,

And we, too blind our Periods to foretel,
Should dare thy Malice, but employ thee well,

A THOUGHT upon Human Life.
Paraphras'd from SIMONIDES.
By Mr. TATE.

I

N various Ways defigning Mortals move;
But ftill th' Event is in the Hands of Jove.
Men by the poor Retail of Minutes live,
And Fate but lends the Life it seems to give:
Tenants at Will we are to Heav'nly Pow'rs,
And Debtors for the Breath we think is ours.

On Life's wide Ocean diverfly launch'd out,
Our Minds alike are toft on Waves of Doubt;
Holding no fteddy Course, or conftant Sail,
But shift and tack with ev'ry Veering Gale.
Bewitch'd by Fairy hopes, we tug in vain,
Some flying and inchanted Isle to gain ;
'Till pitying Chance a kind Difafter fends,
And by a lucky Wreck the fruitless Labour ends.
Tho' Night by Night we find, to our dear coft,
Our laft-fpent Day, like all the former, loft;
'Tis yet the common Refuge of our Sorrow,
On the next Day's uncertain Stock to borrow,
'Till broke with Debts on each Infolvent Morrow.
Some run o' Score for Weeks, or Months; and fome
Anticipate for Elifs next Year to come;

When, Darling-Fav'rites, they at Ease shall fit
In Fortune's Lap, and fee their Wishes hit,
Revel in Plenty, Pleasure, Peace, and Mirth-
When lo! before the promis'd Seafon's Birth
The weening Mortal dies -- or has his Breath
Prolong'd by Sickness to a living Death:
Or (forc'd thro' Camps or diftant Seas to roam)
Seeks Fate Abroad, or found by Fate at Home;
For Human Life (by Nature's Law affign'd
One Entrance) does a thoufand Out-lets find:

But ftill the Path to each with Care befet,
Molefting Griefs in ev'ry Paffage met;
Whofe ftraggling Troops fince none can always
Not to Alarm, or on the Foe to run,

Is all that by the Wifeft can be done.
And dext'roufly our Skill fhall be employ'd,
Adding no Griefs to thofe we can't avoid.

The VISION.

By Mrs. SINGER.

WAS in the clofe Receffes of a Shade,

[fhun,

'Tshade for Sacred Contemplation made;

No Beauteous Branch, no Plant, of fragrant Flow'r,
But flourish'd near the Fair Delicious Bow'r:
With charming State its lofty Arches rife
Adorn'd with Bloffoms, as with Stars the Skies:
All pure and fragrant was the Air I drew,

Which Winds thro' Myrtle Groves and Orange blew;
Clear Waves along with pleasing Murmur rush,
And down the artful Falls in noble Cataracts gush.
'Twas here, within this happy Place retir'd,
Harmonious Pleafures all my Soul infpir'd;

I take my Lyre, and try each tuneful String,
Now War, now Love, and Beauty's Force would fing:
To Heav'nly Subjects now, in serious Lays,

I strive my faint, unskilful Voice to raise:
But as I unrefolv'd and doubtful lay,

My Cares in eafie Slumbers glide away;

Nor with fuch grateful Sleep, fuch foothing Reft,
And Dreams like this I e'er before was bless'd;
No wild uncouth Chimera's intervene,

To break the perfect intellectual Scene.

The Place was all with Heav'nly Light o'er-flown, And Glorious with Immortal Splendor fhone; When! lo a bright Atherial Youth drew near, Ineffable his Motions and his Air,