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.
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.
The heav'nly choir, who heard his notes from high, Let down the scale of music from the sky;'
And all the way he taught, and all the way they sung.
Ye brethren of the lyre and tuneful voice!
Lament his lot, but at your own rejoice:
The first in loftiness of thought surpast;
The next in majesty; in both the last.
The force of Nature could no further go;
To make a third she join'd the former two.
On the monument of a fair maiden Lady, who died at Bath, and is there interred.
BELOW 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, 25
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 wondrous 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.
EFITAPH on Mrs. MARGARET PASTON, of Burningham in Norfolk.
So fair, so young, so innocent, so sweet,
So ripe a judgment, and so rare a wit,
Require at least an age in one to meet.
In her they met ; but long they could not stay,
'Twas gold too fine to mix without allay.
The first in loftiness of thought surpast;
The next in majesty; in both the last.
The force of Nature could no further go;
To make a third she join'd the former two.
On the monument of a fair maiden Lady, who died at Bath, and is there interred.
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, 25
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,
30
'Twas wondrous 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.
EFITAPH on Mrs, MARGARET PASTON, of Burningham in Norfolk.
. So fair, so young, so innocent, so sweet, So ripe a judgment, and so rare a wit, Require at least an age in one to meet.
In her they met; but long they could not stay, 'Twas gold too fine to mix without allay.
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