In full delights, let sprightly Southern live,
With all that women, and that wine, can give.
May generous Wycherly, all sufferings past,
Enjoy a well-deserved estate, at last.
Fortune, with merit, and with wit, be friends,
And sure, tho' slowly, make a large amends.
Late, very late, may the great Dryden dye,.
But when deceased, may Congreve rise as high.
To him my service, and my love commend,
The greatest wit, and yet the truest friend.
Accept, dear Moyle, a letter writ in haste,
Which my impatient friendship dictates fast.
Friendship, like love, imperfectly exprest,
Yet by their being so, they're both shown best.
Each, no cold leisure for our thoughts affords,
But at a heat, strikes out our eager words.
The soul's emotion, most her truth assures,
Such as I feel, while I subscribe me
Of Dryden it can hardly be necessary to say more than to quote the Epitaph which John Sheffield, Duke of Buckingham, intended for his tomb.
"This Sheffield raised: the sacred dust below
Was Dryden once: the rest who does not know?"
Congreve said of him-"What he has done in any one species or distinct kind of poetry, would have been sufficient to have acquired him a very great name; if he had written nothing but his Prefaces, or nothing but his Songs and his Dialogues, each of them would have entitled him to the preference and distinction of excelling in its kind."
The specimens are selected from these minor poems.
Veni Creator Spiritus,
PARAPHRASED.
CREATOR spirit, by whose aid
The world's foundations first were laid,
Come visit every pious mind;
Come pour thy joys on human kind;
From sin and sorrow set us free,
And make thy temples worthy thee.
O source of uncreated light,
The father's promised paraclete!
Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire,
Our hearts with heavenly love inspire;
Come, and thy sacred unction bring
To sanctify us while we sing.
Plenteous of grace, descend from high,
Rich in thy sevenfold energy!
Thou strength of his Almighty hand,
Whose power does heaven and earth command.
Proceeding spirit, our defence,
Who do'st the gifts of tongues dispense,
And crown'st thy gift with eloquence!
Refine and purge our earthly parts;
But, ah, inflame and fire our hearts!
Our frailties help, our vice controul,
Submit the senses to the soul;
And when rebellious they are grown,
Then lay thy hand, and hold 'em down.
Chace from our minds th' infernal foe,
And peace, the fruit of love, bestow;
And lest our feet should step astray,
Protect and guide us in the way.
Make us eternal truths receive,
And practice all that we believe:
Give us thyself, that we may see
The Father, and the Son, by thee.
Immortal honour, endless fame,
Attend th' Almighty Father's name :
The Saviour Son be glorify'd,
Who for lost man's redemption dy'd :
And equal adoration be,
Eternal paraclete, to thee.
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,
Rests here, rewarded by an heavenly prince;
For what his earthly could not recompence.
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 confined 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
Tó earth, and meant for ornaments to heaven.
Spoken at Oxford, by Mrs. Marshall.
OFT has our poet wish'd,, this happy seat
Might prove his fading Muse's last retreat;
I wonder'd at his wish, but now I find
He sought for quiet and content of mind;
Which noiseful towns and courts can never know,
And only in the shades like laurels grow.
Youth ere it sees the world, here studies rest,
And age returning thence concludes it best.
What wonder if we court that happiness
Yearly to share, which hourly you possess,
Teaching e'en you, while the vext world we show,
Your peace to value more, and better know?
'Tis all we can return for favours past,
Whose holy memory shall ever last,
For patronage from him whose care presides
O'er every noble art, and every science guides,
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