Tunbosom all the secrets of her heart,
Take good advice, but better to impart.
For 'tis the bliss of friendship's holy state,
To mix their minds, and to communicate;
Though bodies cannot, souls can penetrate:
Fixt to her choice, inviolably true,

And wisely choosing, for she chose but few.
Some she must have; but in no one could find
A tally fitted for so large a mind.

The souls of friends like kings in progress are;
Still in their own, though from the palace far:
Thus her friend's heart her country dwelling was,
A sweet retirement to a coarser place;
Where pomp and ceremonies enter'd not,
Where greatness was shut out, and business well
forgot.

This is th' imperfect draught; but short as far As the true height and bigness of a star Exceeds the measures of th' astronomer. She shines above, we know; but in what place, How near the throne, and Heaven's imperial face, By our weak optics is but vainly guest; Distance and altitude conceal the rest.

Though all these rare endowments of the mind Were in a narrow space of life confin'd, The figure was with full perfection crown'd; Though not so large an orb, as truly round.

As when in glory, through the public place, The spoils of conquer'd nations were to pass, And but one day for triumph was allow'd, The consul was constrain'd his pomp to crowd; And so the swift procession hurry'd on, That all, though not distinctly, might be shown: So in the straiten'd bounds of life confin'd, She gave but glimpses of her glorious mind: And multitudes of virtues pass'd along; Each pressing foremost in the mighty throng, Ambitious to be seen, and then make room For greater multitudes that were to come.

Yet unemploy'd no minute slipt away;
Moments were precious in so short a stay.
The haste of Heaven to have her was so great,
That some were single acts, though each complete;
But every act stood ready to repeat.

Her fellow-saints with busy care will look
For her blest name in Fate's eternal book;
And, pleas'd to be outdone, with joy will see
Numberless virtues, endless charity:
But more will wonder, at so short an age,
To find a blank beyond the thirtieth page:
And with a pious fear begin to doubt
The piece imperfect, and the rest torn out.

No pains she suffer'd, nor expir'd with noise;
Her soul was whisper'd out with God's still voice;
As an old friend is beckon'd to a feast,
And treated like a long-familiar guest.
He took her as he found, but found her so,
As one in hourly readiness to go:
Ev'n on that day, in all her trim prepar'd;
As early notice she from Heaven had heard,
And some descending courier from above
Had given her timely warming to remove;
Or counsell'd her to dress the nuptial room,
For on that night the bridegroom was to come.
He kept his hour, and found her where she lay
Cloth'd all in white, the livery of the day:
Scarce had she sinn'd in thought, or word, or act;
Unless omissions were to pass for fact:
That hardly Death a consequence could draw,
To make her liable to Nature's law.
And, that she dy'd, we only have to show
The mortal part of her she left below:
The rest, so smooth, so suddenly she went,
Look'd like translation through the firmament,
Or like the fiery car on the third errand sent.

O happy soul! if thou canst view from high,
Where thou art all intelligence, all eye,
If, looking up to God, or down to us,
Thou find'st, that any way be pervious,
Survey the ruins of thy house, and see
Thy widow'd and thy orphan family:
Look on thy tender pledges left behind;
And, if thou canst a vacant minute find
From heavenly joys, that interval afford
To thy sad children, and thy mourning lord.
See how they grieve, mistaking in their love,
And shed a beam of comfort from above;
Give them, as much as mortal eyes can bear,
A transient view of thy full glories there;
That they with moderate sorrow may sustain
And mollify their losses in thy gain.
Or else divide the grief; for such thou wert,
That should not all relations bear a part,
It were enough to break a single heart.

Let this suffice: nor thou, great saint, refuse
This humble tribute of no vulgar Muse:
Who, not by cares, or wants, or age deprest,
Stems a wild deluge with a dauntless breast;
And dares to sing thy praises in a clime
Where vice triumphs, and virtue is a crime;
Where ev'n to draw the picture of thy mind,
Is satire on the most of human kind :
Take it, while yet 'tis praise; before my rage,
Unsafely just, break loose on this bad age;

A copy near th' original, 'twas she.

As precious gums are not for lasting fire, They but perfume the temple, and expire: So was she soon exhal'd, and vanish'd hence; A short sweet odour, of a vast expense. She vanish'd, we can scarcely say she dy'd; For but a Now did Heaven and Earth divide: She pass'd serenely with a single breath; This moment perfect health, the next was death: One sigh did her eternal bliss assure; So little penance needs, when souls are almost pure. As gentle dreams our waking thoughts pursue; Or, one dream pass'd, we slide into a new ; So close they follow, such wild order keep, We think ourselves awake, and are asleep: So softly death succeeded life in her:

She did but dream of Heaven, and she was there.

From vice, but barely by departing hence.

Be what and where thou art: to wish thy place, Were, in the best, presumption more than grace. Thy relics (such thy works of mercy are) Have, in this poem, been my holy care. As earth thy body keeps, thy soul the sky, So shall this verse preserve thy memory; For thou shalt make it live, because it sings of thee.

V.

ON THE DEATH OF AMYNTAS.

A PASTORAL ELEGY.

'Twas on a joyless and a gloomy morn,

Wet was the grass, and hung with pearls the thorn;

When Damon, who design'd to pass the day
With hounds and horns, and chase the flying prey,
Rose early from his bed; but soon he found
The welkin pitch'd with sullen clouds around,
An eastern wind, and dew upon the ground.
Thus while he stood, and sighing did survey
The fields, and curst th' ill omens of the day,
He saw Menalcas come with heavy pace;
Wet were his eyes, and cheerless was his face:
He wrung his hands, distracted with his care,
And sent his voice before him from afar.
"Return," he cry'd, "return, unhappy swain,
The spuugy clouds are fill'd with gathering rain:
The promise of the day not only cross'd,
But ev'n the spring, the spring itself, is lost.
Amyntas-oh!"-he could not speak the rest,
Nor needed, for presaging Damon guess'd.
Equal with Heaven young Damon lov'd the boy,
The boast of Nature, both his parents' joy.
His graceful form revolving in his mind;
So great a genius, and a soul so kind,
Gave sad assurance that his fears were true;
Too well the envy of the gods he knew:
For when their gifts too lavishly are plac'd,
Soon they repent, and will not make them last.
For sure it was too bountiful a dole,
The mother's features, and the father's soul.
Then thus he cry'd: "The morn bespoke the news:
The Morning did her cheerful light diffuse:
But see how suddenly she chang'd her face,
And brought on clouds and rain, the day's disgrace;
Just such, Amyntas, was thy promis'd race.
What charms adorn'd thy youth, where Nature
smil'd,

And more than man was given us in a child!
His infancy was ripe: a soul sublime
In years so tender that prevented time:
Heaven gave him all at once; then snatch'd away,
Ere mortals all his beauties could survey:
Just like the flower that buds and withers in a day."

MENALCAS.

The mother, lovely, though with grief opprest,
Reclin'd his dying head upon her breast,
The mournful family stood all around;
One groan was heard, one universal sound:

All were in floods of tears and endless sorrow drown'd.
So dire a sadness sat on every look,
Ev'n Death repented he had given the stroke.
He griev'd his fatal work had been ordain'd,
But promis'd length of life to those who yet remain'd.
The mother's and her eldest daughter's grace,
It seems, had brib'd him to prolong their space.
The father bore it with undaunted soul,
Like one who durst his destiny control:
Yet with becoming grief he bore his part,
Resign'd his son, but not resign'd his heart.
Patient as Job; and may he live to see,
Like him, a new increasing family!

DAMON.

Such is my wish, and such my prophecy.
For yet, my friend, the beauteous mould remains;
Long may she exercise her fruitful pains!
But, ah! with better hap, and bring a race
More lasting, and endued with equal grace!
Equal she may, but further none can go:
For he was all that was exact below.

MENALCAS.

Damon, behold yon breaking purple cloud;
Hear'st thou not hymns and songs divinely loud?
There mounts Amyntas; the young cherubs play
About their godlike mate, and sing him on his way.
He cleaves the liquid air, behold he flies,
And every moment gains upon the skies.
The new-come guest admires th' ethereal state,
The sapphire portal, and the golden gate;
And now, admitted in the shining throng,
He shows the passport which he brought along.
His passport is his innocence and grace,
Well known to all the natives of the place.
Now sing, ye joyful angels, and admire
Your brother's voice, that comes to mend your quire:
Sing you, while endless tears our eyes bestow;
For like Amyntas none is left below.

VI.

ON THE

DEATH OF A VERY YOUNG GENTLEMAN, He who could view the book of Destiny, And read whatever there was writ of thee, O charming youth, in the first opening page, So many graces in so green an age, Such wit, such modesty, such strength of mind, A soul at once so manly, and so kind; Would wonder, when he turn'd the volume o'er, And after some few leaves should find no more, Nought but a blank remain, a dead void space, A step of life that promis'd such a race. We must not, dare not think, that Heaven began A child, and could not finish him a man; Reflecting what a mighty store was laid Of rich materials, and a model made: The cost already furnish'd; so bestow'd, As more was never to one soul allow'd: Yet, after this profusion spent in vain, Nothing but mouldering ashes to remain, I guess not, lest I split upon the shelf, Yet, durst I guess, Heaven kept it for himself; And, giving us the use, did soon recal, Ere we could spare, the mighty principal.

Thus then he disappear'd, was rarify'd;
For 'tis improper speech to say he dy'd:
He was exhal'd; his great Creator drew
His spirit, as the Sun the morning dew.
'Tis sin produces death; and he had none
But the taint Adam left on every son.
He added not, he was so pure, so good,
'Twas but th' original forfeit of his blood:
And that so little, that the river ran
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 so clear, we might behold
The gravel bottom, and that bottom gold.

As such 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 superstitious love:
For when we more than human homage pay,
The charming cause is justly snatch'd away.

Thus was the crime not his, but ours alone:
And yet we murmur that he went so soon:
Though miracles are short and rarely shown,

XII.

ON THE

MONUMENT OF A FAIR MAIDEN LADY, WHO DIED AT BATH, AND IS THERE INTERRED.

BELOW this marble monument is laid All that Heaven 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 heavenly 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 through a crystal case the figur'd hours are seen. And Heaven did this transparent veil provide, Because she had no guilty thought to hide. All white, a virgin-saint, she sought the skies: For marriage, though it sullies not, it dies. High though 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 Heaven below, That when arriv'd, she scarce had more to know: 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 prayer. Yet in such charities she pass'd the day, 'Twas wondrous how she found an hour to pray. A soul só 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.

Rests here, rewarded by an heavenly prince;
For what his earthly could not recompense.
Pray, reader, that such times no more appear:
Or, if they happen, learn true honour here.
Ask of this age's faith and loyalty,

Which, to preserve them, Heaven confin'd in thee.
Few subjects could a king like thine deserve:
And fewer, such a king, so well could serve.
Blest king, blest subject, whose exalted state
By sufferings rose, and gave the law to Fate.
Such souls are rare, but mighty patterns given
To Earth, and meant for ornaments to Heaven.

XV. EPITAPH

UPON THE EARL of Rochester'S BEING DISMISSED FROM
THE TREASURY, IN 1687.

HERE lies a creature of indulgent Fate,
From Tory Hyde rais'd to a chit of state;
In chariot now, Elisha like, he's hurl'd
To th' upper empty regions of the world:
The airy thing cuts through the yielding sky;
And as it goes does into atoms fly:
While we on Earth see, with no small delight,
The bird of prey turn'd to a paper kite.
With drunken pride and rage he did so swell,
The hated thing without compassion fell;
By powerful force of universal prayer,
The ill-blown bubble is now turn'd to air;
To his first less than nothing he is gone,
By his preposterous transaction!

XVI.

EPITAPH.

INTENDED FOR DRYDEN'S WIFE.

HERE lies my wife: here let her lie! Now she's at rest, and so am I.

XIII.

ÉPITAPH 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.
Heaven's image was in her so well exprest,
Her very sight upbraided all the rest;
Too justly ravish'd from an age like this,
Now she is gone, the world is of a piece.

XVII. EPIGRAM,

ON THE DUTCHESS of PORTSMOUTH'S PICTURE.

SURE we do live by Cleopatra's age,
Since Sunderland does govern now the stage:
She of Septimius had nothing made,
Pompey alone had been by her betray'd.
Were she a poet, she would surely boast,
That all the world for pearls had well been lost.

XIV.

ON THE

MONUMENT OF THE MARQUIS of winchesteR.

He, who in impious times undaunted stood,
And midst rebellion durst be just and good:
Whose arms asserted, and whose sufferings more
Confirm'd the cause for which he fought before;

XVIII.

DESCRIPTION OF OLD JACOB TONSON'. WITH leering look, bull-fac'd, and freckled fair, With two left legs, with Judas colour'd hair, And frowzy pores, that taint the ambient air.

On Tonson's refusing to give Dryden the price he asked for his Virgil, the poet sent him the above; and added, "Tell the dog, that he who wrote them, can write more." The money was paid.

SONGS, ODES, AND A MASQUE.

I.

THE FAIR STRANGER.

A SONG.

HAPPY and free, securely blest; No beauty could disturb my rest; My amorous heart was in despair, To find a new victorious fair.

Till you, descending on our plains,
With foreign force renew my chains;
Where now you rule without control
The mighty sovereign of my soul.

Your smiles have more of conquering charms,
Than all your native country arms:
Their troops we can expel with ease,
Who vanquish only when we please.

But in your eyes, oh! there's the spell,
Who can see them, and not rebel?
You make us captives by your stay,
Yet kill us if you go away.

II.

ON THE YOUNG STATESMEN.

CLARENDON had law and sense,

Clifford was fierce and brave; Bennet's grave look was a pretence, And Danby's matchless impudence Help'd to support the knave.

But Sunderland, Godolphin, Lory, These will appear such chits in story,

"Twill turn all politics to jests,

To be repeated like John Dory,

When fiddlers sing at feasts.

Protect us, mighty Providence,

What would these madmen have?

First, they would bribe us without pence, Deceive us without common sense,

And without power enslave.

Shall free-born men, in humble awe,
Submit to servile shame;
Who from consent and custom draw
The same right to be rul'd by law,

Which kings pretend to reign?

The duke shall wield his conquering sword,
The chancellor make a speech,

The king shall pass his honest word,
The pawn'd revenue sums afford,

And then, come kiss my breech.

So have I seen a king on chess

(His rooks and knights withdrawn, His queen and bishops in distress) Shifting about, grow less and less, With here and there a pawn.

III.

A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY, 1687,

FROM harmony, from heavenly harmony
This universal frame began:
When Nature underneath a heap
Of jarring atoms lay,

And could not heave her bead,
The tuneful voice was heard from high,
"Arise, ye more than dead."
Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry,
In order to their stations leap,
And Music's power obey.

From harmony, from heavenly harmony,
This universal frame began:
From harmony to harmony
Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
The diapason closing full in man.

What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
When Jubal struck the chorded shell,
His listening brethren stood around,
And, wond'ring, on their faces fell

To worship that celestial sound.

Less than a God they thought there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell,

That spoke so sweetly and so well. What passion cannot Music raise and quel!?

Sharp violins proclaim

Their jealous pangs, and desperation,
Fury, frantic indignation,

Depth of pains, and height of passion,
For the fair, disdainful dame.

But oh! what art can teach,

What human voice can reach,
The sacred organ's praise?
Notes inspiring holy love,

Notes that wing their heavenly ways
To mend the choirs above.

Orpheus could lead the savage race;
And trees uprooted left their place,
Sequacious of the lyre:

But bright Cecilia rais'd the wonder higher:
When to her organ vocal breath was given,
An angel heard, and straight appear'd
Mistaking Earth for Heaven.

GRAND CHORUS.

As from the power of sacred lays,
The spheres began to move,
And sung the great Creator's praise
To all the bless'd above;