And giving us the use, did foon recal,
Ere we could fpare, the mighty principal.
Thus then he difappear'd, was rarify'd;
For 'tis improper speech to say he dy'd:
He was exhal'd; his great Creator drew
His fpirit, as the fun the morning dew.
'Tis fin produces death; and he had none,
But the taint Adam left on every fon.
He added not, he was fo pure, fo good,
'Twas but the original forfeit of his blood :
And that fo little, that the river ran

21

25

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More clear than the corrupted fount began.
Nothing remain❜d of the first muddy clay;
The length of course had wash'd it in the way:
So deep, and yet fo clear, we might behold 35
The gravel bottom, and that bottom gold.
As fuch we lov'd, admir'd, almost ador'd,
Gave all the tribute mortals could afford.
Perhaps we gave so much, the powers above
Grew angry at our fuperftitious love:

For when we more than human homage pay,
The charming caufe is juftly fnatch'd away.

Thus was the crime not his, but ours alone: And yet we murmur that he went fo foon ; 44 Though miracles are short and rarely shown.

40

Learn then, ye mournful parents, and divide That love in many, which in one was ty'd. That individual bleffing is no more, But multiply'd in your remaining store.

49

The flame's difpers'd, but does not all expire;

The sparkles blaze, though not the globe of

fire.

Love him by parts, in all

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your numerous race,

And from those parts form one collected grace; Then, when you have refin❜d to that degree, Imagine all in one, and think that one is he. 55

UPON

YOUNG MR. ROGERS,

OF

GLOUCESTERSHIRE.

OF gentle blood, his parents' only treasure, Their lafting forrow, and their vanish'd pleafure,

Adorn'd with features, virtues, wit, and grace, A large provision for so short a race;

More moderate gifts might have prolong'd his date,

Too early fitted for a better state;
But, knowing heaven his home, to shun delay,
He leap'd o'er age, and took the shortest way.

5

MR.

ON THE DEATH OF

PURCELL.

SET TO MUSIC BY DR. BLOW.

1.

MARK how the lark and linnet fing;
With rival notes

They ftrain their warbling throats,
To welcome in the spring.

But in the close of night,

When Philomel begins her heavenly lay,

They cease their mutual fpite,
Drink in her music with delight,

And, lift'ning, filently obey.

II.

So ceas'd the rival crew, when Purcell came; They fung no more, or only fung his fame: 11 Struck dumb, they all admir'd the godlike man: The godlike man,

Alas! too foon retired,
As he too late began.

15

We beg not hell our Orpheus to restore:
Had he been there,

Their fovereign's fear

Had fent him back before.

The power of harmony too well they knew: 20 He long ere this had tun'd their jarring sphere, And left no hell below.

III.

The heavenly choir, who heard his notes from

high,

Let down the scale of music from the sky:

They handed him along,

25

And all the way he taught, and all the way they fung.

Ye brethren of the lyre, and tuneful voice, Lament his lot; but at your own rejoice: Now live fecure, and linger out your days; The gods are pleas'd alone with Purcell's lays, Nor know to mend their choice.

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