ODE on the Death of HENRY PURCELL.

Set to Mufick.

G

OOD angels fnatch'd him eagerly on high;
Joyful they flew, finging and foaring thro' the
Teaching his new-fledg'd foul to fly;
While we, alas! lamenting He.

He went mufing all along,

Compofing new their heav'nly fong

[sky,

A while his skilful notes loud hallelujahs drown'd;
But foon they ceas'd their own, to catch his pleasing
DAVID himself improv'd the harmony, [found.
DAVID in facred story so renown'd

No lefs for mufick, than for poetry!
Genius fublime in either art!
Crown'd with applaufe furpaffing all defert!

A man just after God's own heart!

If human cares are lawful to the bleft,
Already fettled in eternal reft;

Needs must he wish that PURCELL only might
Have liv'd to fet what he vouchsaf'd to write;
For, fure, the noble thirst of fame
With the frail body never dies;
But with the foul afcends the skies
From whence at first it came.

"Tis fure no little proof we have
That part of us furvives the grave,
And in our fame below ftill bears a fhare:
Why is the future else so much our care,
Ev'n in our latest moment of despair?

And death despis'd for fame by all the wife and brave? Oh, all ye bleft harmonious choir!

Who pow'r Almighty only love, and only that admire! Look down with pity from your peaceful bow'r, On this fad ifle perplex'd,

And ever, ever vex'd

With anxious care of trifles, wealth, and pow'r. In our rough minds due reverence infufe [muse. For fweet melodious founds, and each harmonious Mufick exalts man's nature, and infpires

High elevated thoughts, or gentle, kind defires.

P?

On the Lofs of an only Son,

ROBERT Marquis of NORMANBY.

Ο

UR morning's gay and fhining;
The days our joys declare;

At ev❜ning no repining;
And night's all void of care.

A fond tranfported mother
Was often heard to cry,
Oh, where is fuch another
So blefs'd by Heav'n as I?

A child at firft was wanting;
Now fuch a fon is fent,
As parents most lamenting

In him would find content.

A child, of whom kind Heaven
Not only hope bestows,
But has already given

Him all our hopes propose.

The happy fire's poffeffing
His fhare in fuch a boy,
Adds ftill a greater blessing
To all my other joy.

But ah! this fhiny weather
Became too hot to last;
Black clouds began to gather,
And all the sky o'ercaft.

So fierce a fever rages,

We all lie drown'd in tears; And difmal fad presages

Come thund'ring in our ears.

The doubts that made us languish, Did worse, far worse than kill! Yet, oh, with all their anguish, Would we had doubted still!

By why fo much digression,
This fatal lofs to fhow?
Alas, there's no expreffion
Can tell a parent's woe!

On Mr. POPE, and his POEMS.

WITH

7ITH age decay'd, with courts and bus'nefs tir'd,
Caring for nothing but what ease requir'd,
Too ferious now a wanton mufe to court,
And from the criticks fafe arriv'd in port;
I little thought of launching forth agen,
Amidst advent'rous rovers of the pen;
And, after fome fmall undeferv'd fuccefs,
Thus hazarding at last to make it less.

Encomiums fuit not this cenforious time,
Itself a fubject for satirick rhyme;
Ignorance honour'd, wit and worth defam'd,
Folly triumphant, and ev'n HOMER blam'd.

But to this Genius, join'd with so much art,
Such various learning mix'd in ev'ry part,
Poets are bound a loud applause to pay;
APOLLO bids it, and they must obey.

And yet fo wond'rous, so fublime a thing,
As the great ILIAD, scarce fhould make me fing;
Except I juftly could at once commend
A good companion, and as firm a friend.
One moral, or a mere well-natur'd deed,
Can all defert in fciences exceed.

'Tis great delight to laugh at fome mens ways ; But a much greater to give merit praise.