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HORÆ LYRICÆ.

BOOK III.

SACRED TO

THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.

AN EPITAPH ON KING WILLIAM III.

BENEATH

OF GLORIOUS MEMORY,

Who died March the 8th, 1701.

DENEATH these honours of a tomb,
Greatness in humble ruin lies:
(How earth confines in narrow room
What heroes leave beneath the skies!)

Preserve, O venerable pile,
Inviolate thy sacred trust;
To thy cold arms the British Isle,
Weeping, commits her richest dust.

Ye gentlest ministers of Fate,
Attend the monarch as he lies,
And bid the softest slumbers wait
With silken cords to bind his eyes.

Rest his dear sword beneath his head,
Round him his faithful arms shall stand :
Fix his bright ensigns on his bed,
The guards and honours of our land.

Ye sister arts of Paint and Verse,
Place Albion fainting by his side,
Her groans arising o'er the hearse,
And Belgia sinking when he died.

High o'er the grave Religion set
In solemn gold; pronounce the ground
Sacred, to bar unhallow'd feet,
And plant her guardian Virtues round.

Fair Liberty, in sables drest,
Write his lov'd name upon his urn,
"William, the scourge of tyrants past,
And awe of princes yet unborn."
Sweet Peace his sacred relics keep,
With olives blooming round her head,
And stretch her wings across the deep,
To bless the nations with the shade.

Stand on the pile, immortal Fame,
Broad stars adorn thy brightest robe,
Thy thousand voices sound his name
In silver accents round the globe.
Flattery shall faint beneath the sound,
While hoary Truth inspires the song;
Envy grow pale and bite the ground,
And Slander gnaw her forky tongue.

Night and the Grave, remove your gloom,
Darkness becomes the vulgar dead;
But Glory bids the royal tomb
Disdain the horrours of a shade.

Glory with all her lamps shall burn,
And watch the warrior's sleeping clay,
Till the last trumpet rouse his urn
To aid the triumphs of the day.

ON

THE SUDDEN DEATH OF MRS. MARY

PEACOCK.

AN ELEGIAC SONG, SENT IN A LETTER OF CONDOLENCE TO MR. N. P. MERCHANT, AT AMSTERDAM.

HARK! She bids all her friends adieu;
Some angel calls her to the spheres;
Our eyes the radiant saint pursue
Through liquid telescopes of tears.

Farewell, bright soul, a short farewell!
Till we shall meet again above

In the sweet groves where pleasures dwell,
And trees of life bear fruits of love:

There glory sits on every face;
There friendship smiles in every eye;
There shall our tongues relate the grace
That led us homeward to the sky.

O'er all the names of Christ our King
Shall our harmonious voices rove;
Our harps shall sound from every string
The wonders of his bleeding Love.

Come, sovereign Lord, dear Saviour, come,
Remove these separating days,

Send thy bright wheels to fetch us home;
That golden hour, how long it stays!

How long must we lie lingering here,
While saints around us take their flight?
Smiling they quit this dusky sphere,
And mount the hills of heavenly light.
Sweet soul, we leave thee to thy rest,
Enjoy thy Jesus and thy God,
Till we, from bands of clay releas'd,
Spring out, and climb the shining road.

While the dear dust she leaves behind
Sleeps in thy bosom, sacred Tomb!
Soft be her bed, her slumbers kind,
And all her dreams of joy to come.

EPITAPHIUM

VIRI VENERABILIS DOM. N. MATHER,

CARMINE LAPIDARIO CONSCRIPTUM.

M. S.

Reverendi admodum Viri

NATHANAELIS MATHERI QUOD mori potuit hic subtus depositum est. Si quæris, hospes, quantus et qualis fuit, Fidus enarrabit lapis.

Nomen à familiâ duxit Sanctioribus studiis et evangelio devotâ, Et per utramque Angliam celebri, Americanam sc. atque Europæam. Et hinc quoque in sancti ministerii spem eductus Non fallacem :

Et hunc utraque novit Anglia

Doctum et docentem,

Corpore fuit procero, formâ placidè verendâ ; At supra corpus et formam sublimè eminuerunt Indoles, ingenium, atque eruditio: Supra hæc pietas, et (si fas dicere)

Supra pietatem modestia, Cæteras enim dotes obumbravit. Quoties in rebus divinis peragendis Divinitas afflatæ mentis specimina Præstantiora edidit, Toties hominem sedulus occuluit Ut solus conspiceretur Deus: Voluit totus latere, nec potuit; Hen quantum tamen sui nos latet! Et majorem laudis partem sepulchrale marmor Invita obruit silentio.

Gratiam Jesu Christi salutiferam Quam abundè hausit ipse, aliis propinavit, Puram ab humanâ face. Veritatis evangelicæ decus ingens, Et ingens propugnaculum. Concionator gravis aspectu, gestu, voce ; Cui nec aderat pompa oratoria, Nec deerat;

Flosculos rhetorices supervacaneos fecit Rerum dicendarum Majestas, et Deus præsens : Hinc arma militiæ suæ non infelicia, Hinc toties fugatus Satanas. Et hinc victoriæ

Ab inferorum portis toties reportatæ. Solers ille ferreis impiorum animis infigere Altum et salutare vulnus:

Vulneratas idem tractare leniter solers,
Et medelam adhibere magis salutarem.
Ex defæcato cordis fonte
Divinis eloquiis affatim scatebant labia,
Etiam in familiari contubernio:
Spirabat ipse undique coelestes suavitates,
Quasi oleo lætitiæ semper recèns delibutus,
Et semper supra socios;

Gratumque dilectissimi sui Jesu odorem
Quaquaversùs et latè diffudit.
Dolores tolerans supra fidem,
Erumnæque heu quam assiduæ !
Invicto animo, victrice patientiâ
Varias curarum moles pertulit
Et in stadio et in metâ vitæ:
Quam ubi propinquam vidit
Plerophoriâ fidei quasi curru alato vectus
Properè et exultim attigit.

Natus est in agro Lancastriensi 20° Martii, 1630.
Inter Nov-Anglos theologiæ tyrocinia fecit.
Pastorali munere diu Dublinii in Hibernia functus,
Tandem (ut semper) Providentiam secutus ducem,
Catui fidelium apud Londinenses præpositus est,
Quos doctrinâ, precibus, et vitâ beavit :
Ah brevi !

Corpore solutus 26o Julii, 1697. Ætat. 67. Ecclesiis moerorem, theologis exemplar reliquit. Probis piisque omnibus

Infandum sui desiderium:
Dum pulvis Christo charus hie dulcè dormit
Expectans stellam matutinam.

ΤΟ

THE REV. MR. JOHN SHOWER,

ON THE DEATH OF HIS DAUGHTER,
MRS. ANNE WARNER.

REVEREND AND DEAR SIR,

How great soever was my sense of your loss, yet I did not think myself fit to offer any lines of comfort: your own meditations can furnish you with many a delightful truth in the midst of so heavy a sorrow; for the covenant of grace has brightness enough in it to gild the most gloomy providence; and to that sweet covenant your soul is no stranger. My own thoughts were much impressed with the tidings of your daughter's death; and though I made many a reflection on the vanity of mankind in its best estate, yet I must acknowledge that my temper leads me most to the pleasant scenes of Heaven, and that future world of blessedness. When I recollect the memory of my friends that are dead, I frequently rove into the world of spirits, and search them out there. Thus I endeavoured to trace Mrs. Warner; and these thoughts crowding fast upon me, I set them down for my own entertainment. The verse breaks off abruptly, because I had no design to write a finished elegy; and besides, when I was fallen upon the dark side of death, I had no mind to tarry there. If the lines I have written be so happy as to entertain you a little, and divert your grief, the time spent in composing them shall not be reckoned among my lost hours, and the review will be more pleasing to,

sir,

your affectionate humble servant, I. W.

December 22, 1707.

AN ELEGIAC THOUGHT ON MRS. ANNE

WARNER,

WHO DIED OF THE SMALL-POX, DECEMBER 18, 1707,
AT ONE OF THE CLOCK IN THE MORNING; A FEW
DAYS AFTER THE BIRTH AND DEATH OF HER FIRST
CHILD.

AWAKE, my Muse, range the wide world of souls,
And seek Vernera fled. With upward aim
Direct thy wing; for she was born from Heaven,
Fulfill'd her visit, and return'd on high.

The midnight watch of angels, that patrole The British sky, have notic'd her ascent Near the meridian star; pursue the track To the bright confines of immortal Day And Paradise, her home. Say, my Urania,

Nor set with meaner gems. But vain ambition,
And emulation vain, and fond conceit,
And pride for ever banish'd flies the place,
Curst pride, the dress of Hell. Tell me, Urania,
How her joys heighten, and her golden hours

(For nothing 'scapes thy search, nor canst thou miss Circle in love. O stamp upon my soul

So fair a spirit) say, beneath what shade
Of amaranth, or cheerful ever-green,
She sits, recounting to her kindred minds,
Angelic or humane, her mortal toil
And travels through this howling wilderness;
By what divine protection she escap'd

Those deadly snares when youth and Satan leagu'd
In combination to assail her virtue

(Snares set to murder souls); but Heaven secur'd The favourite nymph, and taught her victory.

Or does she seek, or has she found her babe
Amongst the infant-nation of the blest,
And clasp'd it to her soul, to satiate there
The young maternal passion, and absolve
The unfulfill'd embrace? Thrice happy child!
That saw the light and turn'd its eyes aside
From our dim regions to th' Eternal Sun,
And led the parent's way to glory! There
Thou art for ever hers, with powers enlarg'd
For love reciprocal and sweet converse.

Behold her ancestors (a pious race)
Rang'd in fair order, at her sight rejoice,
And sing her welcome. She along their seats
Gliding salutes them all with honours due,
Such as are paid in Heaven: and last she finds
A mansion fashion'd of distinguish'd light,
But vacant: "This (with sure presage she cries)
Awaits my father; when will he arrive?

Some blissful image of the fair deceas'd,
To call my passions and my eyes aside

From the dear breathless clay; distressing sight!

I look and mourn and gaze with greedy view
Of melancholy fondness: tears bedewing
That form so late desir'd, so late belov'd,
Now loathsome and unlovely. Base Disease,
That leagu'd with Nature's sharpest pains, and spoil'd
So sweet a structure! The impoisoning taint
O'erspreads the building wrought with skill divine,
And ruins the rich temple to the dust!

Was this the countenance, where the world ad-
Features of Wit and Virtue? this the face [mir'd
Where Love triumph'd? and Beauty on these cheeks,
As on a throne, beneath her radiant eyes
Was seated to advantage; mild, serene,
Reflecting rosy light? So sits the Sun
(Fair eye of Heaven!) upon a crimson cloud
Near the horizon, and with gentle ray
Smiles lovely round the sky, till rising fogs,
Portending night, with foul and heavy wing
Involve the golden star, and sink him down
Opprest with darkness.-

ON

How long, alas, how long!" (Then calls her mate) THE DEATH OF AN AGED AND HONOURED "Die, thou dear partner of my mortal cares, Die, and partake my bliss; we are for ever one."

Ah me! where roves my fancy! What kind
dreams

Crowd with sweet violence on my waking mind!
Perhaps illusions all! Inform me, Muse,
Chooses she rather to retire apart,
To recollect her dissipated powers,

And call her thoughts her own? so lately freed
From Earth's vain scenes, gay visits, gratulations,
From Hymen's hurrying and tumultuous joys,

And fears and pangs, fierce pangs that wrought her death.

Tell me on what sublimer theme she dwells

In contemplation, with unerring clue
Infinite truth pursuing. (When, my soul,
O when shall thy release from cumbrous flesh
Pass the great seal of Heaven? What happy hour
Shall give thy thoughts a loose to soar and trace
The intellectual world? Divine delight!
Vernera's lov'd employ !) Perhaps she sings
To some new golden harp th' almighty deeds,
The names, the honours of her Saviour-God,
His cross, his grave, his victory, and his crown:
Oh could I imitate th' exalted notes,
And mortal ears could bear them!-

Or lies she now before th' eternal throne
Prostrate in humble form, with deep devotion
C'erwhelm'd, and self-abasement at the sight
Of the uncover'd Godhead face to face?
Seraphic crowns pay homage at his feet,
And hers amongst them, not of dimmer ore,

RELATIVE, MRS. M. W.

JULY 13, 1693.

I KNOW the kindred-mind. 'Tis she, 'tis she;
Among the heavenly forms I see

The kindred-mind from fleshly bondage free;
O how unlike the thing was lately seen
Groaning and panting on the bed,
With ghastly air and languish'd head,

Life on this side, there the dead,.
While the delaying flesh lay shivering between!

Long did the earthy house restrain
In toilsome slavery that ethereal guest;
Prison'd her round in walls of pain,

And twisted cramps and aches with her chain;
Till by the weight of numerous days opprest,
The earthy house began to reel,

The pillars trembled, and the building fell;
The captive soul became her own again:
Tir'd with the sorrows and the cares,

A tedious tram of fourscore years,
The prisoner smil'd to be releas'd,

She felt her fetters loose, and mounted to her rest.

Gaze on, my soul, and let a perfect view
Paint her idea all anew;

Rase out those melancholy shapes of woe
That hang around the memory, and becloud it so.
Come Fancy, come, with essences refin'd,

With youthful green, and spotless white;
Deep be the tincture, and the colours bright
T'express the beauties of a naked mind,

Provide no glooms to form a shade; All things above of varied light are made, Nor can the heavenly piece require a mortal aid. But if the features too divine Beyond the power of Fancy shine, [shrine, Conceal th' inimitable strokes behind a graceful

Describe the saint from head to feet, Make all the lines in just proportion meet; But let her posture be

Filling a chair of high degree;

Observe how near it stands to the Almighty seat.
Paint the new graces of her eyes;
Fresh in her looks let sprightly youth arise,
And joys unknown below the skies.
Virtue, that lives conceal'd below,
And to the breast confin'd,
Sits here triumphant on the brow,
And breaks with radiant glories through
The features of the mind.
Express her passion still the same,
But more divinely sweet;
Love has an everlasting flame,

And makes the work complete.

The painter-Muse with glancing eye
Observ'd a manly spirit nigh ',

That Death had long disjoin'd: "In the fair tablet they shall stand United by a happier band :" [mind. She said, and fix'd her sight, and drew the manly Recount the years, my song, (a mournful round!)

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To gild the bright original!

ed after more of art in the following composition, to supply the defect of nature, and to feign a sorrow; but the uncommon condescension of his friendship to me, the inward esteem I pay his memory, and the vast and tender sense I have of the loss, make all the methods of art needless, whilst natural grief supplies more than all.

I had resolved indeed to lament in sighs and silence, and frequently checked the too forward Muse: but the importunity was not to be resisted; long lines of sorrow flowed in upon me ere I was aware, whilst I took many a solitary walk in the garden adjoining to his seat at Newington; nor could I free myself from the crowd of melancholy ideas. Your ladyship will find throughout the poem, that the fair and unfinished building which he had just raised for himself, gave almost all the turns of mourning to my thoughts; for I pursue no other topics of elegy than what my passion and my senses lead me to.

The poem roves, as my eyes and grief did, from one part of the fabric to the other. It rises from the foundation, salutes the walls, the doors, and the windows, drops a tear upon the roof, and climbs the turret, that pleasant retreat, where I promised myself many sweet hours of his conversation: there my song wanders amongst the delightful subjects divine and moral, which used to entertain our happy leisure; and thence descending to the fields and the shady walks, where I so often enjoyed his pleasing discourse, my sorrows diffuse themselves there without a limit. I had quite forgotten all scheme and method of writing, till I correct myself, and rise to the turret again to lament that desolate seat. Now if the critics laugh at the folly of the Muse for taking too much notice of the golden ball, let them consider that the meanest thing that belonged to so valuable a person still gave some fresh and doleful reflections: and I transcribe nature without rule, and represent friendship in a mourning dress, abandoned to deepest sorrow, and with a negligence becoming woe unfeigned.

Had I designed a complete elegy, madam, on your dearest brother, and intended it for public view, I should have followed the usual forms of

'Tis done. The Muse has now perform'd her part. poetry, so far at least as to spend some pages in Bring down the piece, Urania, from above,

And let my honour and my love

the character and praises of the deceased, and thence have taken occasion to call mankind to

Dress it with chains of gold to hang upon my heart. complain aloud of the universal and unspeakable

A FUNERAL POEM

ON THE DEATH OF THOMAS GUNSTON, ESQ.

loss: but I wrote merely for myself, as a friend of the dead, and to ease my full soul by breathing out my own complaints; I knew his character and virtues so well, that there was no need to mention them while I talked only with myself; for the image of them was ever present with me, which

Presented to the Right Hon. the Lady Abney, Lady kept the pain at the heart intense and lively, and

MADAM,

Mayoress of London.

July 1701.

HAD I been a common mourner at the funeral of the dear gentleman deceased, I should have labour

1 My grandfather, Mr. Thomas Watts, had such acquaintance with the mathematics, painting, musie, and poesy, &c. as gave him considerable esteem among his contemporaries. He was commander of a ship of war, 1656, and by blowing up of the ship in the Dutch war he was drowned in his youth.

my tears flowing with my verse.

Perhaps your ladyship will expect some divine thoughts and sacred meditations, mingled with a subject so solemn as this is. Had I formed a design of offering it to your hands, I had composed a more Christian poem; but it was grief purely natural for a death so surprising that drew all the strokes of it, and therefore my reflections are chiefly of a moral strain. Such as it is, your ladyship requires a copy of it; but let it not touch your soul too tenderly, nor renew your own mournings. Receive it, madam, as an offering of love and tears at the tomb of a departed friend, and let

it abide with you as a witness of that affectionate respect and honour that I bore him; all which, as your ladyship's most rightful due, both by merit and by succession, is now humbly offered, by, madam,

your ladyship's most hearty

and obedient servant,

I. WATTS.

TO THE DEAR MEMORY OF MY MUCH HONOURED FRIEND,
THOMAS GUNSTON, ESQ.

See the dull wheels roll on the sable load;
But no dear son to tread the mournful road,
And fondly drop his kind young sorrows there,
The father's urn bedewing with a filial tear.
O bad he left us one behind, to play
Wanton about the painted hall, and say,
"This was my father's," with impatient joy
In my fond arms I'd clasp the smiling boy,
And call him my young friend: but awful Fate
Design'd the mighty stroke as lasting as 'twas
great.

And must this building then, this costly frame,
Stand here for strangers? Must some unknown

name

Possess these rooms, the labours of my friend?
Why were these walls rais'd for this hapless end?

Who died Nov. 11, 1700, when he had just finished Why these apartments all adorn'd so gay?

his Seat at Newington.

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Drag but a longer ruin through the downward air,
And plunge the falling joy still deeper in despair.

How did our souls stand flatter'd and prepar'd
To shout him welcome to the seat he rear'd!
There the dear man should see his hopes complete,
Smiling, and tasting every lawful sweet
That peace and plenty brings, while numerous years
Circling delightful play'd around the spheres:
Revolving Suns should still renew his strength,
And draw the uncommon thread to an unusual
length:

But hasty Fate thrusts her dread shears between,
Cuts the young life off, and shuts up the scene.
Thus airy Pleasure dances in our eyes,
And spreads false images in fair disguise,
T'allure our souls, till just within our arms
The vision dies, and all the painted charms

Flee quick away from the pursuing sight,

Why his rich fancy lavish'd thus away?
Muse, view the paintings, how the hovering light
Plays o'er the colours in a wanton flight,
And mingled shades wrought in by soft degrees,
Give a sweet foil to all the charming piece;
But night, eternal night, hangs black around
The dismal chambers of the hollow ground,
And solid shades unmingled round his bed
Stand hideous: earthy fogs embrace his head,
And noisome vapours glide along his face
Rising perpetual. Muse, forsake the place,
Flee the raw damps of the unwholesome clay,
Look to his airy spacious hall, and say,
"How has he chang'd it for a lonesome cave,
Confin'd and crowded in a narrow grave!"

Th' unhappy house looks desolate, and mourns,
And every door groans doleful as it turns;
The pillars languish; and each lofty wall,
Stately in grief, laments the master's fall
In drops of briny dew. The fabric bears
His faint resemblance, and renews my tears:
Solid and square rises from below:

A noble air without a gaudy show
Reigns through the model, and adorns the whole,
Manly and plain. Such was the builder's soul.

O how I love to view the stately frame,
That dear memorial of the best-lov'd name!
Then could I wish for some prodigious cave
Vast as his seat, and silent as his grave,

Till they are lost in shades, and mingle with the Where the tall shades stretch to the hideous roof, night.

Forbid the day, and guard the sun-beams off;

Muse, stretch thy wings, and thy sad journey bend Thither, my willing feet, should ye be drawn
To the fair fabric that thy dying friend
Built nameless: 'twill suggest a thousand things
Mournful and soft as my Urania sings.

How did he lay the deep foundations strong,
Marking the bounds, and rear the walls along
Solid and lasting! There a numerous train
Of happy Gunstons might in pleasure reign,
While nations perish, and long ages run,
Nations unborn, and ages unbegun :

Not Time itself should waste the blest estate,
Nor the tenth race rebuild the ancient seat.
How fond our fancies are! The founder dies
Childless; his sisters weep, and close his eyes,
And wait upon his hearse with never-ceasing cries.
Lofty and slow it moves to meet the tomb,
While weighty sorrow nods on every plume;
A thousand groans his dear remains convey
To his cold lodging in a bed of clay,

At the gray twilight, and the early dawn;
There sweetly sad should my soft minutes roll,
Numbering the sorrows of my drooping soul.
But these are airy thoughts! substantial grief
Grows by those objects that should yield relief;
Fond of my woes, I heave my eyes around,
My grief from every prospect courts a wound;
Views the green gardens, views the smiling skies,
Still my heart sinks, and still my cares arise;
My wandering feet round the fair mansion rove,
And there to soothe my sorrows I indulge my love,

Oft have I laid the awful Calvin by,
And the sweet Cowley, with impatient eye
To see those walls, pay the sad visit there,
And drop the tribute of an hourly tear:
Still I behold some melancholy scene,
With many a pensive thought, and many a sigh
between.

His country's sacred tears well-watering all the Two days ago we took the evening air,

way.

I, and my grief, and my Urania there;

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