UPON THE DEATH OF LORD HASTINGS.
Nature gave him, a child, what men in vain
Oft' strive, by art tho' further'd, to obtain.
His body was an orb, his sublime soul
Did move on Virtue's and on learning's pole ;
Whose reg'lar motions better to our view
Than Archimedes' sphere the heav'ns did shew. 30
Grace and virtues, languages and arts,
Beauty and learning, fill'd up all the parts.
Heav'n's gifts, which do like falling stars appear
Scatter'd in others, all, as in their sphere,
Were fix'd, conglobate in his soul; and thence
Shone thro' his body with sweet influence,
Letting their glories so on each limb fall,
The whole frame render'd was celestial.
Come, learned Ptolemy, and trial make,
If thou this hero's altitude canst take :
But that transcends thy skill; thrice happy all,
Could we but prove thus astronomical.
Liv'd Tycho now, struck with this ray which shone
More bright i' th' morn' than others beam at noon,
He'd take his astrolabe, and seek out here
What new star 'twas did gild our hemisphere.
Replenish'd then with such rare gifts as these,
Where was room left for such a foul disease?
The nation's sin hath drawn that veil, which shrouds
Our day-spring in so sad benighting clouds ;
Heav'n would no longer trust its pledge, but thus
Recall'd it, rapt its Ganymede from us.
UPON THE DEATH OF LORD HASTINGS. Was there no milder way but the small-pox, The very filthiness of Pandora's box?
So many spots, like næves on Venus' soil,
One jewel set off with so many a foil: [did sprout
Blisters with pride swell'd, which through's flesh
Like rose-buds stuck i' th' lily-skin about.
Each little pimple had a tear in it,
To wail the fault its rising did commit;
Which, rebel-like with its own lord at strife,
Thus made an insurrection 'gainst his life,
Or were these gems sent to adorn his skin,
The cab'net of a richer soul within?
No comet need foretel his change drew on,
Whose corpse might seem a constellation.
O! had he dy'd of old, how great a strife
Had been, who from his death should draw their
Who should, by one rich draught, become whate'er
Seneca, Cato, Numa, Cæsar, were?
Learn'd, virtuous, pious, great; and have by this An universal metempsychosis.
Must all these aged sires in one fun'ral
Expire? all die in one so young, so small?
Who, had he liv'd his life out. his great fame
Had swoll'n 'bove any Greek or Roman name.
But hasty winter, with one blast, hath brought
The hopes of Autumn, Summer, Spring, to nought.
Thus fades the oak i' th' sprig; i' th' blade the corn;
Thus, without young, this phoenix dies new-born, 80
UPON THE DEATH OF LORD HASTINGS.
Must then oldthree-legg'd gray-beards, with their gout Catarrhs, rheums, aches, live three ages out? Time's offals, only fit for th' hospital!
Or to hang antiquaries' rooms withal !
Must drunkards, lechers, spent with sinning, live85
With such helps as broths, possets, physic, give?
None live but such as should die? shall we meet
With none but ghostly fathers in the street?
Grief makes me rail; sorrow will force its way,
And show'rs of tears tempestuous sighs best lay. 90
The tongue may fail, but overflowing eyes
Will weep out lasting streams of elegies.
But thou, O virgin-widow! left alone,
Now thy belov'd, heav'n-ravish'd, spouse is gone,
Whose skilful sire in vain strove to apply
Med'cines when thy balm was no remedy,
With greater than Platonic love, O wed
His soul, tho' not his body, to thy bed :
Let that make thee a mother; bring thou forth
Th' ideas of his virtue, knowledge, worth;
Transcribe th' original in new copies; give
Hastings o' th' better part; so shall he live
In's nobler half; and the great grandsire be
Of an heroic, divine progeny;
To my boncured friend, Sir ROBERT HOWARD, on his ex
As there is music, uninform'd by art,
In those wild notes which, with a merry heart,
The birds in unfrequented shades express,
Who, better taught at home, yet please us less;
So in your verse a native sweetness dwells,
Which shames composure, and its art excels,
Singing no more can your soft numbers grace,
'Than paint adds charms unto a beauteous face.
Yet as when mighty rivers gently creep,
Their even calmness does suppose them deep,
Such is your Muse: no metaphor swell'd high,
With dang'rous boldness, lifts her to the sky :
Those mounting fancies, when they fall again,
Shew sand and dirt at bottom do remain.
So firm a strength, and yet withal so sweet,
Did never but in Samson's riddle meet.
The Fpistles are in this edition, arranged according to chronological order, which was never done before, excepting in the edition of the Miscellanies in 1760, in four volumes octavo. The epistle to Mr. Julian is retained, not from any high opinion of its value, but because we find it in the Miscellanies, and cannot, therefore, suppose it to be an imposition.
'Tis strange each line so great a weight should bear,
And yet no sign of toil, no sweat appear.
Either your art hides art, as Stoics feign
Then least to feel when most they suffer pain,
And we, dull souls! admire, but cannot see
What hidden springs within the engine be;
Or 'tis some happiness that still pursues
Each act and motion of your graceful Muse.
Or is it Fortune's work, that in your head
The curious net that is for fancies spread
Lets thro' its meshes ev'ry meaner thought,
While rich ideas there are only caught?
Sure that's not all; this is a peace too fair,
To be the child of Chance, and not of Care.
No atoms casually together hurl'd,
Could e'er produce so beautiful a world:
Nor dare I such a doctrine here admit
As would destroy the providence of Wit.
'Tis your strong genius, then, which does not feel
Those weights would make a weaker spirit reel. 36
To carry weight and run so lightly too,
Is what alone your Pegasus can do.
Great Hercules himself could ne'er do more
Than not to feel those heav'ns and gods he bore.40
Your easier Odes, which for delight were penn'd,
Yet our instruction make theirsecond end;
We're both enrich'd and pleas'd, like them that woo
At once a beauty and a fortune too.
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