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The promise of the day not only cross'd,
But e'en the Spring, the Spring itself is lost.
Amyntas-Oh!'-He could not speak the rest,
Nor needed, for presaging Damon guest.
Equal with Heaven young Damon loved 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 placed,
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 cried: 'The Morn bespoke the news;
The Morning did her cheerful light diffuse;
But see how suddenly she changed her face,
And brought on clouds and rain, the day's disgrace;
Just such, Amyntas, was thy promised race.
What charms adorn'd thy youth, where Nature
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.'
MEN. The mother, lovely, though with grief op-
Reclined his dying head upon her breast; [press'd,
The mournful family stood all around;
One groan was heard, one universal sound,
All were in floods of tears and endless sorrow
So dire a sadness sat on every look, [drown'd.
E'en Death repented he had given the stroke;
He grieved his fatal work had been ordain'd,
But promised length of life to those who yet re-
The mother's and her eldest daughter's grace,
It seems, had bribed 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!
DAM. 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 farther none can go;
For he was all that was exact below.
MEN. Damon,behold yon breaking purple cloud; Hear'st thou not hymns and songs divinely loud? There mounts Amyntas; the young cherubs play About their god-like 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 the' 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.
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 promised 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 recall,
Ere we could spare, the mighty principal.
Thus then he disappear'd, was rarified;
For 'tis improper speech to say he died;
He was exhaled, 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 the' 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 loved, admired, almost adored,
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.
Hear then, ye mournful parents, and divide That love in many, which in one was tied. That individual blessing is no more, But multiplied in your remaining store. The flame's dispersed, but does not all expire; The sparkles blaze, though not the globe of fire. Love him by parts, in all your numerous race, And from those parts form one collected grace; Then, when you have refined to that degree, Imagine all in one, and think that one is he.
YOUNG MASTER ROGERS,
OF gentle blood, his parents' only treasure,
Their lasting sorrow, and their vanish'd pleasure;
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.
THE DEATH OF MR. PURCELL.
SET TO MUSIC BY DR. BLOW.
MARK how the lark and linnet sing;
They strain their warbling throats
To welcome in the Spring.
But in the close of night,
When Philomel begins her heavenly lay,
They cease their mutual spite,
Drink in her music with delight,
And listening, silently obey.
So ceased the rival crew when Purcell came; They sung no more, or only sung his fame: Struck dumb, they all admired the godlike man: The godlike man,
Alas! too soon retired,
As he too late began.
We beg not Hell our Orpheus to restore:
Had he been there,
Their sovereign's fear
Had sent him back before.