Come, virgins, ere in equal bands ye join, Come first, and offer at her sacred shrine; Pray but for half the virtues of this wife, Compound for all the rest, with longer life; And wish your vows, like hers, may be return'd,

So lov'd when living, and when dead so mourn'd.

EPITAPH ON SIR PALMES FAIRBONE'S TOMB IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

Sacred to the immortal memory of Sir Palmes Fairbone, Knight, Governor of Tangier; in execution of which command, he was mortally wounded by a shot from the Moors, then besieging the town in the forty-sixth year of his age. October 24,1680.

YE sacred relics, which your marble keep,
Here, undisturb'd by wars, in quiet sleep :
Discharge the trust, which, when it was be-
Fairbone's undaunted soul did undergo, [low,
And be the town's Palladium from the foe.
Alive and dead these walls he will defend:
Great actions great examples must attend.
The Candian siege his early valour knew,
Where Turkish blood did his young hands im-
brue.

From thence returning with deserv'd applause, Against the Moors his well flesh'd sword he draws;

The same the courage, and the same the cause.
His youth and age, his life and death, combine,
As in some great and regular design,
All of a piece throughout, and all divine.
Still nearer heaven his virtues shone more
bright,

Like rising flames expanding in their height;
The martyr's glory crown'd the soldier's fight.
More bravely British general never fell,
Nor general's death was e'er reveng'd so well;
Which his pleas'd eyes beheld before their close,
Follow'd by thousand victims of his foes.
To his lamented loss for time to come
His pious widow consecrates this tomb.

UNDER MR. MILTON'S PICTURE BEFORE HIS PARADISE LOST.

THREE poets in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England did adorn, The first, in loftiness of thought surpass'd; The next, in majesty; in both the last.

The force of nature could no further go;
To make a third, she join'd the former two.

ON THE

MONUMENT OF A FAIR MAIDEN LADY,

WHO DIED AT BATH, AND IS THERE IN TERRED.*

BELOW this marble monument is laid
All that heaven wants of this celestial maid.
Preserve, O sacred tomb, thy trust con-
sign'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 dyes.
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
But only to refresh the former hint; [know:
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.

This lady is interred in the Abbey-church. The epitaph is on a white marble stone fixed in the wall, together with this inscription: 'Here lies the body of Mary, third daughter of Richard Frampton, of Moreton in Dorsetshire, Esq; and of Jane his wife, sole daughter of Sir Francis Coffington, of Founthill in Wilts, who was born January 1, 1676, and died after seven weeks illness on the 6th of September, 1698.

This monument was erected by Catharine Frampton, her second sister and executrix, in testimony of her grief, affection, and gratitude.' D.

more

Confirm'd the cause for which he fought before,
Rests here, rewarded by a 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, [thee.
Which, to preserve them, heaven confin'd in
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.

SONGS, ODES, AND A MASQUE.

THE FAIR STRANGER, A SONG.*

HAPPY and free, securely blest, No beauty could disturb my rest;

This song is a compliment to the Duchess of Portsmouth, on her first coming to England. D.

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,
'T will 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.

• But Sunderland] This nobleman had certainly great and various abilities, with a complete versatility of genius, and a most insinuating address; but he was totally void of all principles, moral or religious, and a much more abandoned character than Shaftesbury, whom it is so common to calumniate. He certainly urged James II. to pursue arbitrary and illegal measures, that he intended should be his ruin, and betrayed him to the Prince of Orange. The Abbé de Longuerue relates, that Dr. Massey, of Christ Church, assured him, he once received an order from King James to expeltwentyfour students of that college in Oxford, if they did not embrace popery. Massey, astonished at the order, was advised by a friend to go to London, and show it to the king; who assured him he had never given him such an order, and commended Massey for not having obeyed it; yet still this infatuated monarch continued to trust Sunderland. Dr. J. W.

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.

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

I.

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

And could not heave her head,
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.

II.

What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
When Jubal struck the corded shell,
His listening brethren stood around,
And, wondering, on their faces fell
To worship that celestial sound.
Less than a God they thought there could not
Within the hollow of that shell, [dwell
That spoke so sweetly and so well.
What passion cannot Music raise and quell?

III.

The trumpet's loud clangor

Excites us to arms,

With shrill notes of anger,

And mortal alarms.

The double double double beat
Of the thundering drum

Cries, hark! the foes come;
Charge, Charge, 't is too late to retreat.

IV.

The soft complaining flute

In dying notes discovers
The woes of hopeless lovers,

Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.

v.

Sharp violins proclaim*

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

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

VI.

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.

VII.

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;
So when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour,
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And Music shall untune the sky.

SONG FAREWELL, FAIR ARMIDA FAREWELL, fair Armida, my joy and my grief, In vain I have lov'd you, and hope no relief;

Sharp violins] It is a judicious remark of Mr. thet to the instrument; because, in the poet's time, they could not have arrived at that delicacy of tone, even in the hands of the best masters, which they now have in those of an inferior kind. See Essays on English Church Music, by the Rev. W. Mason, M.A. Precentor of York, 12mo. 1795, p. 218. T.

Mason, that Dryden with propriety gives this epi

+ This song, written on the death of Captain Dig. by, has been given by Mr. Malone in his Life of Dryden, on account, he says,of its not having been preserved in Dryden's works, and being found entire only in a scarce Miscellany, viz. Covent Garden Drollery.' I must, however, observe, that the song is printed entire in New Court Songs and

year;

A CHOIR of bright beauties in spring did appear,
To chose a May-lady to govern the
All the nymphs were in white, and the shepherds
in green;

The garland was given, and Phyllis was queen:
But Phyllis refus'd it, and sighing did say,
I'll not wear a garland while Pan is away.

While Pan and fair Syrinx are fled from our shore,

The Graces are banish'd, and Love is no more: The soft god of pleasure, that warm'd our desires,

Has broken his bow, and extinguish'd his fires: And vows that himself and his mother will mourn,

Till Pan and fair Syrinx in triumph return.

Poems, by R. V. Gent. 8vo. 672, p. 78. In this collection the second line runs thus:

'In vain I have lov'd you, and find no relief.' The sixth,

A fate which in pity,' &c.

The twelfth,

'My fate from your sight,' &c.

An answer from Armida, as she is called, follows the Song in this collection; but it is not worth citing. The ridiculous parody on this Song in the Rehearsal is too well known to require copying here. But the following ludicrous stanza, which I have seen in MS. and which is a coeval parody on Dryden's Song to Armida, deserves to be cited:

'Or if the king please that I may, at his charge, Just under your window he brought in a barge; Nay 'twill be enough, as I died a brave fighter, If but to your window I come in a lighter; Or, rather than fail to shew my love fuller, I would be content to arrive in a sculler; But if me these favours my fate hath deny'd, I hope to come floating up with a spring tyde. Ar nida is said to have been the beautiful Frances Stuart, wife of Charles, Duke of Richmond. Captain Digby was killed at sea in the engagement between the English and Dutch fleet, off Southwold Bay, in 1672. T.

FAIR, Sweet, and young, receive a prize
Reserv'd for your victorious eyes:
From crowds, whom at your feet you see,
O pity, and distinguish me!
As I from thousand beauties more
Distinguish you, and only you adore.
Your face for conquest was design'd,
Your every motion charms my mind ;
Angels, when you your silence break,
Forget their hymns, to hear you speak;
Are loth to mount, and long to stay with you.
But when at once they hear and view,

No graces can your form improve,
But all are lost, unless you love;
While that sweet passion you disdain,
Your veil and beauty are in vain :
In pity then prevent my fate,
For after dying all reprieve 's too late.

SONG.

HIGH state and honours to others impart,
But give me your heart:
That treasure, that treasure alone,
I beg for my own.

So gentle a love, so fervent a fire,
My soul does inspire;
That treasure, that treasure alone,
I beg for my own.
Your love let me crave;

Give me in possessing
So matchless a blessing
That empire is all I would have.
Love's my petition,
All my ambition;
If e'er you discover
So faithful a lover,
So real a flame,
I'll die, I'll die,
So give up my game.

SONG.