The PAINTER's MOURNING.

A

Pelles heard, with Grief to Parents known,

That early Death had snatch'd his Infant
[Son:
Deep-struck, the Painter bids his Friends convey
To his fad Sight the dear remaining Clay;
His Pencil takes, This Plaint my Griefs require;
Accept, my Son, This Mourning from thy Sire.
The Father's Hand, to either Office true,

First clos'd the Eyes and when it clos'd them drew.
Each Feature see what equal Lines express!
He fighs, and fighing shades the mournful Piece.

Father, proceed; ftill let thy Sorrows flow,

Not

yet thy final Hand has drawn thy Woe.

He fees where Beauty ftill her Station keeps, Glows on the Cheeks, and fmiles upon the Lips;

Et teneras raptim veneres, blandofque lepores,

Et tacitos rifus tranftulit in Tabulam.

Filioli longum vivet imago Tui.

Vivet, & æternâ vives Tu laude; nec Arte Vincendus Pictor, nec Pietate Pater.

THRA X.

Hreicium infantem, cùm lucem intravit &

TH

[auras,

Fletibus excepit mæftus uterque parens. Threicium infantem, cum luce exivit & auris, Extulit ad funus lætus uterque parens. Interea, tu Roma, & tu tibi, Græcia, plaudens, Dicitis, hæc vera eft Thracia barbaries! Lætitiæ caufam, caufamque exquirite luctus, Eft quod vos doceat Thracia barbaries.

And eager on the Tablet copies thence
The rofy Blufh, the blooming Innocence.

"Tis done; in Strokes which Grief alone could give Thy Son's fair Image fhall for Ages live:

With Thee shall live; nor Time shall equall'd fee The Painter's Art, or Father's Piety.

T

The THRACIA N.

HE Thracian Infant, ent'ring into Life,

Both Parents mourn for, both receive with [Grief. The Thracian Infant, fnatch'd by Death away, Both Parents to the Grave with Joy convey. This, Greece and Rome, you with Derifion view, This is meer Thracian Ignorance to you: But if you weigh the Custom you despise,

This Thracian Ignorance may teach the Wife.

On the DEATH of

Sir HERBERT POWELL Baronet.

His faltem accumulem donis, & fungar inani Munere.

HE genuine Grief, the Sorrow void of Art,

THE

[Heart;

The tender Gufhings of the mournful The pious Tears that big with Anguish roll, The Pangs that heave, the Sighs that rend the Soul: Thefe fill my Lays, by these impell'd to write I fing; and all the Song my Woes indite. Gone is the Youth who taught my Plaints to [ceafe, Compos'd my Cares, and banish'd my Distress; Who bad my Joys on fair Foundations rife, And gave indulging Profpects to my Eyes: He's gone! and now afflicted, funk, forlorn, I weep for ever, and for ever mourn.

Ev'n he, the Will Divine ordains it fo,

My Triumph late, is now himself my Woe! Veil'd the sweet Look, and still the gentle Breath, And all the Friend and Patron loft in Death.

O who fhall more my feeble Worth approve?
Who bless me more with so affur'd a Love?‹
None, none; with Life's first opening his began,
Grew with the Child, and ripen'd with the Man;
Perpetual burn'd amidst his vital Fire,

Nor, but with his Expiring, could expire.
O the dire Scene, and O the doleful Day,
When struggling in the Arms of Death he lay!
When these fad Eyes beheld his latest Strife,
And the ftern Tyrant feizing on his Life:
When, reach'd out his pale Hand, and-Muft we
[part?

But blot, Oblivion, blot it from my Heart,
Fly it, my Soul; the dreadful Image fear,

'Tis too intense the Woe,'tis what thou canst not bear.