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Yet fhall the stream of years abate that fire,
And cold esteem fucceed to warm defire :
Then on thy breast enraptur'd fhall I dwell,
Nor feel a joy beyond what I can tell.
Or fay, should sickness antedate that woe,
And intercept what Time would elfe allow;
If pain should pall my taste to all thy charms,

Or Death himself should tear me from thy arms;

How would'st thou then regret with fruitless truth,

The precious fquander'd hours of health and youth?
Come then, my love, nor truft the future day,
Live whilft we can, be happy whilst we may:
For what is life unless its joys we prove?

And what is happiness but mutual love?
Our time is wealth no frugal hand can store,
All our poffeffion is the present hour,

And he who spares to use it, ever poor.
The golden now is all that we can boast;
And that (like fnow) at once is grasp'd and lost.
Hafte, wing thy paffage then, no more delay,
But to these eyes their fole delight convey.
Not thus I languish'd for thy virgin charms,
When firft furrender'd to these eager arms,

When

When first admitted to that heav'n, thy breast,
To mine I ftrain'd that charming foe to reft;
How leaps my conscious heart, whilst I retrace
The dear idea of that ftrict embrace?

When on thy bofom quite entranc'd I lay,
And lov'd unfated the short night away;
Whilst half reluctant you, and half refign'd,
Amidft fears, wishes, pain and pleasure join'd,
Now holding off, now growing to my breast,
By turns reprov'd me, and by turns caress'd.
Oh! how remembrance throbs in every vein!
I pant, I ficken for that scene again;
My fenfes ach, I can no word command,
And the pen totters in my trembling hand.
Farewel, thou only joy on earth I know,
And all that man can taste of heav'n below.

H

* VERSES to Dr. GEORGE ROGERS, on his taking the Degree of Doctor in Phyfic at Padua, in the Year 1664.

W

By Mr. WALLER.

HEN as of old the earth's bold children ftrove,

With hills on hills, to scale the throne of Jove;
Pallas and Mars ftood by their fovereign's fide,
And their bright arms in his defence employ'd.
While the wife Phoebus, Hermes, and the rest,
Who joy in peace and love the Muses best,
Defcending from their fo diftemper'd seat,
Our groves and meadows chose for their retreat.
There firft Apollo tried the various use

Of herbs, and learn'd the virtue of their juice,
And fram'd that art, to which who can pretend
A jufter title than our noble friend,

*This little poem was, among feveral others on the fame occafion, printed by Dr. Rogers, with his inaugural exercise at Padua; and afterwards in the fame manner re-published by him at London, together with his Harveian oration before the college of phyficians, in the year 1682; while Mr. Waller was yet living.

Whom

Whom the like tempeft drives from his abode,
And like employment entertains abroad?

This crowns him here; and, in the bays fo earn'd,
His country's honour is no lefs concern'd;
Since it appears, not all the English rave,
To ruin bent: fome ftudy how to fave.
And as Hippocrates did once extend
His facred art, whole cities to amend;

So we, brave friend, fuppofe that thy great skill,
Thy gentle mind, and fair example, will,
At thy return, reclaim our frantic ifle,

Their fpirits calm; and peace again shall smile.

EDM. WALLER, Anglus.

Patavii, typis Pauli Frambotti.

VIRGIL's Tomb, NAPLES 1741.

Tenues ignavo pollice chordas

Pulfo; Maroneique fedens in margine templi

Sumo animum, & magni tumulis adcanto magiftri. Stat.

Came, great bard, to gaze upon thy shrine,
And o'er thy relicks wait th' infpiring Nine:
For fure, I faid, where Maro's afhes fleep,
The weeping Mufes muft their vigils keep :

I

Still

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Still o'er their fav'rite's monument they mourn,
And with poetic trophies grace his urn:

Have placed the fhield and martial trumpet here;
The fhepherd's pipe, and rural honours there:
Fancy had deck'd the confecrated ground,
And scatter'd never-fading rofes round.
And now my bold romantic thought aspires
To hear the echo of celeftial lyres;

Then catch fome found to bear delighted home,
And boast I learnt the verfe at Virgil's tomb;
Or stretch'd beneath thy myrtle's fragrant shade,
With dreams extatic hov'ring o'er my head,
See forms auguft, and laurel'd ghosts ascend,
And with thyfelf, perhaps, the long proceffion end.
I came but foon the phantoms disappear'd;

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Far other scenes, than wanton Hope had rear'd;
No faery rites, no funeral pomp I found;
'No trophied walls with wreaths of laurel round:
A mean unhonour'd ruin faintly show'd
The spot where once thy maufoleum stood:
Hardly the form remain'd; a nodding dome
O'ergrown with mofs is now all Virgil's tomb.
'Twas fuch a scene as gave a kind relief
To memory, in fweetly-penfive grief:

Gloomy,

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