THE Mourning Swain: A FUNERAL ECLOGUE, HUMBLY Offer'd to the MEMORY Of the Right Honourable JAMES, EARL of ABINGDON.

Written by Mr. ROBERT GOƲLD.

AND Dedicated to His Grace the Duke of Leeds.

LONDON: Printed for the Author, and Sold by John Nutt, near Stationer's-Hall. 1700.

To His Grace the Duke of LEEDS, &c.

THe Sun almost an Annual Race has ran,
Since the Decease of this Prodigious Man:
So long ago, (and such the Nation gave)
These Faithful Tears were wept upon his Grave.
They who can see when Nature sways in Chief,
Will find 'em shed in an Extream of Grief:
Without her aid, in vain we strive by Art,
To Limn a weeping Eye and bleeding Heart.
In Private writ, in Private to the Plains,
I thought to have confin'd these Rural Strains,
An Ev'ning Concert for the Mourning Swains;
When on their Oaten Reeds His Name they'd raise,
All Tun'd to their departed Patron's Praise.
But call'd from thence in Publick to appear,
(My self by being Worthless, fenc'd from Fear)
I fly to YOU with this Illustrious Name,
To stand between Detraction and his Fame.
[Page]With Merit, Envy ever did commence.
And Vice is still suppressing Excellence;
Like feeble Eyes, that shun the Glaring Light,
'Twou'd cover what it cannot bear in Night.
Your nearness to the HERO in His Blood,
And the yet nearer Tye of being Good;
Your joint Endeavours, and Your joint Success,
In lab'ring for Your Country's Happiness;
Your Mutual Friendship, with such Concord knit,
That Love ne'er made so dear a Union yet;
All these Regards, make's this Address your Due:
It can, My Lord, belong to none but YOU,
The Honour of this Celebrated Name;
Return'd, in some degree, from whence it came,
Guide of his Life, and Guardian of his Fame.
Justly the Lines may safely seek, where late
'Tis found by an affrighted tott'ring State:
When to the Verge of Anarchy it drew,
Hurri'd along, and all her Fears in view,
She sighing, cast her Eyes for Aid, on YOU;
YOU who so oft (when wander'd from the way,
And lost in Night) have led us to the Day.
Loud was the Storm; and now, advancing nigh,
There seem'd no hope of help from Policy.
Here Bigottry like Scylla threat'ning stood,
Horrid with Wrecks, and painted o'er with Blood.
There, like Charibdis, Tyranny appear'd,
Fearful to sight, and Hideous to be heard!
And yet between 'em lay the happy Coast,
Which either we must Make, or all be lost.
Here 'twas (and greatlier ne'er employ'd before)
Your Counsels did our Peace and Pow'r restore,
When they had took their leave, to come no more.
Where does the wond'rous Penetration lie?
Or is all Nature opn'd to Your Eye?
That thus YOU forward look among the Fates,
And seem a Second Providence to States?
For ever on Your Country's good Intent,
YOU Foreign Ills divert, and Home prevent.
No more an Empty Title to the Main
Our Squadrons boast; by Your Advice they Reign.
Europe and Africa Triumphant saw
Our Navy Ride, and give the Ocean Law;
While those who thought t' Invade us now retire,
And leave their Shoars to Spoil and Hostile Fire.
If the Physician oft divert our Fate,
By feeling how the Blood does Circulate,
What may HE do that know's the Pulse of State?
Be Fevour, Faintness, Frenzy, the Disease,
Or if a Lethargy the Vitals seize;
Be it Luxurious Peace, or Lawless Might,
Or Legislative Rage for Ravish'd Right;
Be it a less'ning Fame, or less'ning Trade,
The Neighb'ring Strength increas'd, or ours decay'd,
The Remedy is certain you advise;
And we are ne'er so Low, but then we Rise.
And yet in spight of this unweary'd Care,
Among us there a sort of Monsters are,
Whose Tongues like Jews, wou'd not their Saviour spare
But y'are Secure, and all their Malice vain;
Such Vertue is too rich a Dye to stain.
As when a Nymph breaths on a Crystal-Glass,
The Damps a while obscure her Beauteous Face;
A Dimness on the fair Reflection lie's,
And sits between her Image and her Eyes:
[Page]But soon the self-assisted Mirror's clear,
The Envious Shades dissolve into the Air,
And all her former lovely Lineaments appear.
So what e'er Spight with black'ning Breath can say,
The Lustre of your Worth does purge away,
Breaks through the sullen Gloom, and settles Day.
But while (alas!) the too advent'rous Muse
Ambitiously her Noble Flight pursues;
She finds the Weight above her Pow'r to raise,
And sinks beneath the Pressure of Your Praise.
A Life like Yours, a History does claim
An ample Fabrick that may hold Your Fame;
Where an Immortal Pillar shou'd be Grav'd,
The Prince's y'ave oblig'd, and Kingdom's sav'd.
And Lo!—(for what can veil the Muse's Eyes)
I see, methinks, a fam'd Historian rise,
Impartial, Great, Elab'rate, Learn'd and Wise;
One on whose Works the Graces all shall smile;
So just a Subject claims the justest Stile.
No other but the best of Pens shou'd show
The Future Ages what the Present owe.
To LEEDS, and (O too early from us torn!)
That other God-like Man, whose Loss we Mourn:
Your Glory will not less Illustrious shine,
To have His Name Immortal made with Thine.
He shall to the succeeding Times display
How You both stood, when hopeless of the Day,
Rescuing th' Rights that others did betray:
The Slaves that for Precarious Pow'r and Place,
To French Designs subject the British Race,
Born to be FREE, and ne'er to be o'ercome,
But when by a brib'd S—n——te Sold at Home.

THE Mourning Swain: A FUNERAL ECLOGUE, ON THE Much Lamented DEATH Of the Right Honourable JAMES, Earl of ABINGDON.

Menalcas, Damon, Alexis.
HE Sinks! he dies away!—Alexis! Friend!
'Tis thy Menalcas calls!—some God descend,
And save the Swain from an untimely End.
Ha! he grows Paler still! O Damon! you
Are come, as you Prophetically knew
The Aid I wish'd, and what his Griefs wou'd do!
I heard the broken Sobs, and faul'tring Breath,
And Groans, like those the Wretched give in Death.
What sad Occasion—
[Page 2]
Ask not yet our Grief,
But lend the Swooning Shepherd quick Relief:
Chafe, chafe his Temples; forward gently bow
The Body—this, or nothing else will do:
Thô when his Spirits to their Seat return,
He lives to Grief, and but revives to Mourn!
What un-foreseen and sudden stroak of Fate
Is this, that Nature sinks beneath the Weight?
That Life retiring, shuns th' unequal Fight,
And if it Conquers, must o'ercome by Flight!
The worst that cou'd the wretched Youth attend:
Bertudor's Dead! his Master, Patron, Friend!
Bertudor! than which yet a Worthier Name
Was e'er took up, or sounded off by Fame.
I brought him word the Noble Soul was flown,
And fear the fatal News has wing'd his Own.
Is this to be your Image? cruel Pow'rs!
How are we Yours, when with'ring Grass and Flow'rs,
Vapours and Bubbles, are so truly Ours?
—But see! the Blood does to his Cheeks ascend,
And lab'ring Life returns.—How fares my Mourning Friend?
Again! Do I yet draw this hated Breath?
And flying Life, can be but mock'd with Death?
Will not the Partial Pow'rs that rule above
Permit this last, best, dearest Act of Love,
To Die, and by that Test, our Sorrows prove?
Must we be doom'd in Being to remain,
Renew'd to Grief, and but preserv'd for Pain?
[Page 3]Ah! dear Menalcas! what an ease 'twou'd be,
Cou'd we, at Will, shake off Mortality!
Cou'd, with our Tears, our Lives dissolving fall,
And Grief had long Oblivion at her call:
But 'twill not be!—in worst Extreams, as now,
The Soul wou'd rest in Death, and Swoon's too go,
When strugling Nature gives us back to Woe!
O fatal Sounds! O endless Sourse of Moan!
And is indeed the brave Bertudor gone?
Did you e'er find unhappy News untrue?
He's Dead! and I shou'd now be Dying too!
Ah! what for us remains (till Life is done)
But Wrongs, Distresses, Obliquy and Moan?
The Sheep must suffer, when the Shepherd's gone.
We all, indeed, the fatal Loss shall rue,
Heavy to Us, but heavier yet to You:
You were acquainted with the Hero Young,
He knew you early, and he lov'd you long.
He found me helpless, and of Friends bereft,
Of Parents, and the little they had left.
The VVorld look'd frowning on my Early Years,
And I seem'd destin'd by my Stars, to Cares.
He took me, rais'd me, fix'd me in his sight;
By Precept and Example, kept me Right—
But Ah! the Lamp is gone, and I am hid in Night!
He taught me Good, then gave that good regard;
But still, it still was short of the Reward.
[Page 4]VVith the new day, new Favours he'd impart,
Then make the VVorld believe 'twas my Desert.
And Shall? O shall this BENEFACTOR go
And we not sing his Worth, and sigh our Woe?
The last sad Task that Gratitude can do.
Shall Time or Rage be suffer'd to efface
The Mem'ry of this best of British Race?
Shall Fame amidst such Merit silent lye?
Shall e'er the Springs that water Grief, be dry?
No! no! while Vertue does on Earth remain,
And Flocks and Herds feed on th' Oxonian Plain;
While Learning there and Piety encrease,
And Truth can rest in the soft Arms of Peace:
While there is VVealth employ'd to Gen'rous Ends,
VVhile there are Sweets in Love, and Faith in Friends,
So long the Muses shall his Loss deplore,
That rain'd a Golden Show'r on them, and Manna to the Poor.
How various are the ways of Providence!
How crooked oft they seem to Human Sense!
He's gone! for whom there's not a Soul but Grieves,
And yet his Foe, the Treach'rous Jockney Lives:
He Lives! (nor does degenerate from his Breed)
That never did one Honourable Deed:
Yet lives in prosp'rous Fortune, high in Trust,
But barb'rous to Desert, and plung'd in Lust:
He lives! that yet ne'er did a Loan restore,
E'er pay a Debt, or e'er relieve the Poor:
He lives! that wou'd subvert the Church and State,
And ride 'em, loaded with Despotick Weight:
[Page 5]He lives! that nothing Impious e'er did shun;
He lives! a longer race of Vice to run;
He lives! and yet the good Bertudor's gone!
If Vertue met with a so early Fate;
Can Vice presume to hope a longer Date?
If Temp'rance thus at Noon is snatch'd away,
Can wild Excess expect to end the day?
It does! it does! and every Wish succeeds,
On Down it lies, and on Ambrosia feeds';
No inward Pang it feel's, or future Reck'ning dread's.
The Best, alas! are Summon'd first to go,
Have least Success, and least Regard below.
The haughty mount, and on the Humble tread;
Depress 'em Living, and Revile 'em Dead.
Their Honours won with Blood, are from 'em torn,
And by their Mortal Foes, insulting worn.
No Disappointments e'er th' Unjust attend;
The Just have God, but not Man, their Friend.
Hence Providence is oft mis-understood,
Scoff'd by bad Men, and doubted by the Good;
While undistinguish'd Right and Wrong are hurl'd,
And Knave and Fool between 'em share the World!
'Tis not for Man, with a too daring Eye,
To look into the Secrets of the Sky;
Or if he shou'd, in vain he strives to see
Through the dark-woven folds of Destiny.
As the Meridian Sun all flaming bright,
Gaz'd on, confounds and quenche's Human Sight;
[Page 6]So Reason fail's, and sink's beneath the Weight
Of Will, Omniscience, Providence and Fate.
But Thou, great Soul, disburthen'd of thy Freight,
Ar't Landed now, on 'tother side of Fate:
To Thee those Distributions all are clear,
That so perplex, and so confound us here.
'Tis true, thus much by Reason's understood;
Affliction is the Test that try's the Good:
Where e'er it Visit's, 'tis by Heaven's Command;
Not shuffl'd out, as Vice wou'd understand,
With blinking Eyes, and a promiscuous Hand.
If prosp'rous Fortunes are to most a Snare,
Why not th' Afflicted God's peculiar Care?
Expos'd to black'ning Tongues, and faithless Friends,
Only to ply their Souls for Nobler Ends:
For Regions where we're known, and know aright,
Where day is never to resign to Night,
And flying Time no more can bound Delight.
Shou'd Pleasure here run smooth with equal Feet,
And Life, thô long, no Disappointment meet;
Shou'd Hope succeed in ev'ry VVish it make's,
And Grief ne'er seize the Soul it once forsake's;
Shou'd ev'ry Pious Man be Fortune's Care,
Humility be cloath'd, and Pride be bare;
Shou'd the first Honours be by VVorth possest;
Shou'd that still rise, and Vice be still deprest;
VVhat e'er hereafter more were to be giv'n,
VVe shou'd rest here, and seek no other Heav'n.
But since this never was, nor will be so,
Not Revelation scarce can plainer show,
That Vertu's not to wear her Crown below.
[Page 7]This Contemplation shou'd your Griefs remove;
Our very Suffering a Reward does prove,
It must not be on Earth—and it must be Above.
With this, Menalcas, firmly I agree
But it not lighten's our Calamity.
Bertudor, thô to endless Joy he's gone,
Has left us cause for a whole Age to Moan.
When great Elijah did on high ascend,
And Heav'n's bright Chariot his Ascent attend,
What Joy was it to his remaining Friend?
He, in his Loss, deplor'd his Country's Fate,
Their Civil Strife's, and cruel Haz'ael's Hate;
Nor yet is ours a fix'd unmurm'ring State.
When will deliv'rance from Oppression come,
If such as He are call'd so early Home?
When will our Publick Fears, and Private Hate
Be o'er, if thus we lose such Props of State?
Who, when the Royal Cause is sunk so low,
Will set so vast a Fortune at a Throw,
And with such Skill, divert th' impending Blow?
Who in the Gap, when Force wou'd Right devour,
Will stand so firm against unbounded Pow'r?
Stemming the Tide of violated Laws,
Till he has made the Just, the Prosp'rous Cause?
O Britain! Thou, whose Happiness He sought,
Whose Happiness He wou'd with Life have bought,
Thy Peace his constant Aim, and still intending Thought;
Let thy sad Genius now put Sables on,
And through the Land diffuse unless'ning Moan,
That ev'ry Eye may VVeep, and ev'ry Breast may Groan!
[Page 8]And thou, O Learned Town! whose Sacred Name,
Has been so long th' envy'd Theme of Fame;
Thou too, should'st in the Mourning Concert share,
Scarcely so much thy Guardian Angel's Care.
Who e'er before made Thee appear so Great,
Or in thy Civil, Learn'd, or Martial State?
Or who hereafter (through more Trials prov'd)
VVill leave Thee—so Bemoan'd, and so Belov'd?
How did He Factious Fears and Doubts control!
How still Contention! and how tune the Soul!
How baffle Envy! and how silence Pride!
In all Elections certain to Preside.
Others to Heats and Strifes, and Feuds wou'd run,
But where he came, he made all Voices one:
With a bare Breath, they mov'd as he enclin'd,
Like standing Corn, all bending with the Wind.
At once to ROIALTY and RIGHT a Friend;
Nor did He to thy Burroughs recommend
A needy Race, for Policy to bait,
Like Gudgeons, catch'd with Pensions by the S—te.
But while, bless'd City, I'd thy HERO show,
I rove, and make Digressions from my Woe.
Ah never! never cease to Sigh His Name!
So true to Honour, and so dear to Fame!
Let all thy Sons bewail th' Exalted Man;
And thou, Immortal Yw—ings! lead the Van:
Thou, who new force do'st to our Language give;
He who so well can Praise, as well can Grieve.
Ransack the silent Seat where Mem'ry lies,
To bring our Woes proportional Supplies:
[Page 9]Let not the hoary Dews of Lethe steep
So many Vertues in Eternal Sleep:
But as they pass our Intellectual view,
Let Sorrow grave 'em deep, and keep 'em new:
Then when we have survey'd th' amazing Store,
Make us reflect, their OWNER is no more!
How all that's Prudent, Noble, Just, and Brave,
Is cover'd with Bertudor in the Grave!
O Thought! that on the Rack does ev'ry Nerve constrain!
Distraction were less Grief, and Dying gentler Pain!
My dear Alexis, if that Rain must fall,
But speak the Hero's Worth, then weep it all.
It was my full Design—but first, my Friend,
(And Weeping, I'll the sad account attend)
Tell by what Malady he hence was torn,
With how confus'd a Grief the loss was born,
All Raving!—'twas too little sure to Mourn;
He had to Human sight, no least Decay,
VVarm as a Summer's Sun's reviving Ray,
Nor promis'd less than a long Summer's day;
Fresh as the Morning, when the pearly Dew
Foretells the bright Meridian to ensue:
But there He stopp'd! there did the Gloom arise!
Veil'd with surrounding Clouds from Human Eyes!
Eclips'd, when most conspicuous in the Skies!
Unwillingly the Rural Shades He left;
(Unhappy Shades! of all your Joys bereft!)
Never in Senate He deny'd His Aid;
This only only Time, He wou'd have staid;
But 'twas His Country call'd,—whose call He still Obey'd.
[Page 10]—But I prevent Thee, dear Menalcas on,
And—if I can—I'll Stifle in my Moan.
To tell you true (who e'er it may displease)
He dy'd of the Physician—a Disease
That long has reign'd, and eager of Renown,
More than a Plague, Depopulate's the Town.
Inflam'd with Wine, and blasting at a Breath,
All it's Prescriptions are Receipts for Death.
Millions of Mischiefs by it's Rage is wrought,
Safe where 'tis fled, but barb'rous where 'tis sought:
A curs'd ingrateful Ill, that call'd to aid,
Is still most fatal where it best is paid.
So slight at first his Ail, it cou'd have done
No further harm, but must of course 'been gone,
Had not this first Malignance forc'd it on;
And cruelly (till then, all pure and good)
With it's own Venom, dash'd the Circling Flood.—
By this time, we the Hero's Danger found;
He near Expiring, and we Weeping round.
The Sighs of Widows, and the Orphans Cries,
Importunate for Aid, besieg'd the Skies.—
—And now the Fevor seem'd in part t' aswage;
Death grin'd a horrid Smile, and half forgot his Rage.
As he grew better, so the Town reviv'd,
As Joy it self were from his Health deriv'd.
But whether 'twere to shew, tho ne'er so late,
How fervent Pray'r can turn the course of Fate;
Or whether 'twere a last expiring Glare,
The fatal Hope that ushers in Despair;
Or whether yet the line of the Disease,
Cou'd be no further lengthen'd out for Fees,
[Page 11]He soon relaps'd, relapsing, weaker grew,
And the pale Tyrant came again in view.
Here Grief was at its utmost stretch disclos'd!
We all Confounded, He alone Compos'd.
What Blessings did He to his Friends bequeath!
What Joys describe, what dying Raptures breath!
With what assurance did he meet his Fate!
How fearless pass th' Inevitable Gate!
His Soul had by Anticipation here,
A taste of Heav'n, before it yet was there.
O Truth! O Innocence! O peaceful Close!
Hail him (ye Angels) to his long Repose.
—But now an Universal burst of Woe,
O'er all the Town, did like a Torrent flow.
The very Senate Mourn'd his early Fate,
Mourn'd this ADJƲSTER of the Church and State;
As quite despairing any more to see
RELIGION reconcil'd to POLICY.
The Clergy next their PATRIOTS loss deplore,
No more to hear his Voice! to have his Smiles no more!
In dang'rous Times they freshly call'd to mind,
How diff'rent Parties in their Aid he join'd;
Then with a Grief too big to speak in Tears,
In Silence sunk beneath their former Fears:
For ne'er before in the most Impious Age,
Were they pursu'd with such Invet'rate Rage,
So Slighted by the Great, and Slander'd from the Stage.
His Friends you next might see Distracted stand,
Too weak the Streams of Anguish to command:
Nor Compass, Card, or Pilot, left to guide
Thy hopeless plunge into the raging Tide.
[Page 12]But theirs, and ev'ry Grief the Poor's out did,
Tearing the very Earth up, to be hid,
And Raving, Self-Destruction was forbid!
A frightful Prospect they before 'em see,
Of Wants, and un-reliev'd Adversity.
Ev'n those that knew him but by Common-Fame,
With Tears repeat their Common Patriot's Name.
Nor less it ought our just Regard to have,
To think what Numbers mourn'd him to the Grave:
With mutual Praise, their mutual Sighs did Vie,
And from so many Mouths, opprest the Sky.—
There rest His Ashes:—but his Nobler Name,
Expanding as it mounts the Starry Frame,
Shall fill th' expiring Breath, and latest Gasp of Fame.
'Tis done, the Task you bid Menalcas do;
His Praise, a Nobler Task, we now expect from you.
That Praise, alas! shou'd be by Angels sung,
At least the first of the Castalian Throng:
Not in my Numbers, broken, rough and lame,
But Verse of the duration of his Fame,
Such as, where-ever read, shou'd sway in Chief;
Mine's but the Duty of a Servant's Grief:
Thô yet (so much my Soul His Name revere's)
What in my Stile Un-elegant appears;
I'll Sanctify with Truth, and Polish with my Tears.
Witness, ye everlasting Lamps above,
Ye Sacred Lights that round us Nightly move,
Witness how oft, when the long day was done,
And all Devotion silent, but his own,
We've seen him on his Knees before th'Immortal Throne.
[Page 13]As if at neither Morning, Noon, and Even,
There Hours enow to Piety were giv'n:
Part of the Night in Prayer He always spent;
The Time by most, to Wine and Lewdness len't:
No Hypocrite e'er with more Ardor cou'd,
Un-seen be Ill, than He'd un-seen be Good.
What ever doing, or where e'er he were,
His Privacies did no Detection fear;
We ne'er cou'd find Him when unfit to see,
Nor hear Him, but the Theme was Piety.
No Faith by Works was ever oft'ner shown:
If when no act of Charity is done,
That day be lost—He never squander'd one.
As soon the Sun might cross from Pole to Pole;
As soon the Wandring Planets cease to roll,
As he dismiss the Poor without their Dole.
No Fears, by which our Scepticks are distrest,
E'er found the least admittance to his Breast:
Where e'er he turn'd his View, Sea, Farth, and Skies,
GOD, in his Works, was present to his Eyes.
Unhappy they! that see this wrond'rous Frame,
And, after, make a Doubt from whence it came!
His Converse thô 'twas cheerful, ne'er was Vain;
His Soul wou'd start, to hear a word Prophane:
That fatal Rock, where half our Nobles split,
Lost for the poor Repute of having Wit:
VVith such, the Vertuous are the only Elves,
But Devils are thought Angels by themselves.
VVhere once He Lov'd, He never cou'd Distrust,
Kind to a Fau't, and to a Scruple Just:—
But most, He most did fly the Snares of Lust.
[Page 14]Not all the Darts thrown by the Beautious Kind,
That Light'ning like, so quick a Passage find;
Not all their Wit, and never-ending Art,
His once engag'd Affection, cou'd divert,
Or melt the Chastity that Wall'd His Heart.
Our Saviour's Precept, He to Practice brought,
And never, never Lusted—not in Thought!
And, to reward His Truth, He twice was join'd
In Wedlock, to the best of Women-kind.
The First, the brightest, purest Soul that e'er
Was sent from Heav'n, to shew us Mortals here
What Angels and Translated Saints are there!
To see Her once, was ev'ry Charm to know,
Of Peace above, or Purity below;
Imagination cou'd no further go!
So sweet her Form, th' Idea warms us yet!—
But Ah! that Light in all her Glory set,
In all her Youth (and we all drown'd in Tears)
E'er She had number'd three and thirty Years;
Yet thirteen times had call'd Lucina's Aid,
And was as oft a happy Mother made.
His next did a like Scene of Joy Presage;
That giv'n to Charm his Youth, and this to Bless his Age;
Her Mind so justly to Her Form contriv'd,
The living Wife, but seem'd the Dead Reviv'd:
No jot Impar'd, or less amazing Bright,
For her succeeding such a Glorious Light.
A strange Eclipse had certainly been thrown,
On any Face, or Vertue but her own.
Here were a Subject now our Voice to raise,
To sing at once her Sorrows and her Praise!
[Page 15]A Year! but one short Year in Wedlock run,
E'er robb'd of all the Worth her Eyes had won!
Her Eyes! a Charm that cou'd for Ages bind,
Were Comfort certain, or had Fate been kind.
Ah Beautious VVidow,! cou'd I think, when late
The Muse did on your happy Nuptials wait,
That such a Scene of Pleasure, Love and Light,
So soon wou'd close in Everlasting Night!
That one short Year wou'd so destructive prove
To strictest Vertue, and to noblest Love!
Ah! what avail's our Hope, if Truth must here
Be least, or latest Providence's Care?
What comfort have we, towards the Goal to strive,
If thus the Stream of Fate at Random drive?
If all the Blessings of the Good and Fair,
Must like a Bubble break, and end in Air!
You know there's none exempt from Human Cares—
But, Friend, you lose His Vertues in your Tears.
Forgive me, Damon, I've too long digrest;
But who cou'd hold, to see such Charms distrest?
All Praise we owe, is to his Vertues due,
But some regard, must wait on Beauty too:
Ev'n He himself wou'd Pardon such as start,
To give our Duty, where he He gave his Heart—
—But to our View, His Temp'rance next appears,
His fast Companion from his early Years.
In all th' Affluence of a Wealth so vast,
He ne'er the Common Bounds of Nature past.
Thô on his Board, (where all the Season's smil'd)
What Earth cou'd furnish, plentiously was pil'd;
[Page 16]Thô there the Sea a constant Tribute paid,
And richest VVines (declining Nature's aid)
Flow'd round, as from a Spring that ne'er decay'd.
'Twas but prepar'd proportion'd to His Store,
To feast his Neighbours, and to feed the Poor.
How oft wou'd He from all his State descend?
Then only proud, when He cou'd serve a Friend.
Upon His Word, you as on Fate, might rest;
The rather, if it crost His Interest.
To Truth ev'n his most trivial Thoughts did tend,
As heavy Bodies sink, and Flames ascend.
Ev'n Contraries His Meekness reconcil'd,
As soon as Anger touch'd his Breast, 'twas Mild:
His Frowns so stern, when he did Vice reprove,
Through His Aversion, made you see his Love:
From most, resentment does in Hate conclude,
But his Concern was always for your Good.
For ev'ry turn of Human Chance prepar'd,
His Vertues ne'er were missing from his Guard:
And by a wond'rous Mixture, you might find
In him the Hero and the Christian join'd;
The Loftiest Courage, and the Lowliest Mind!
VVhat shall we say?—unless by Angels Penn'd,
His Praises, like our Grief, can have no end.
Nature her self, does of this WORTHY boast,
Aloud she cries—Here was no Labour lost,
While to their various Molds I'd others sit,
Ten thousand fail me, for one lucky hit.
Hereafter, when the Nobler Souls I Frame,
Such as shall early get a Deathless Name,
And late pursue the shining Chase of Fame,
[Page 17] They, by this PATTERN, shall be all Design'd,
And, Copying Him, Exalt the long Degraded Kind.
Were not your Sight subservient to your Moan,
You wou'd perceive it is already done:
What Copy can you hope to see so fair,
As that he drew in His Illustrious HEIR?
Who is more likely Fame's now sinking blast
To lift again as high, and make it last?
A Noble Character, I grant, you've drawn;
But since 'tis Darkness there, look on the Rising Dawn:
What Promises Bertudor's Worth cou'd give,
Like a New Eden, all in Him revive.
Then in our Hope, His CONSORT with Him shares,
Born for His Ease, and soft'ning all His Cares;
She does the Noblest Modern Instance prove,
Of Peace in Wedlock, and of Truth in Love.
This Happy Pair thy Sorrows shou'd divert;
And never was a Nobler VVork for Art.
Begin, Alexis, let thy tuneful Song,
Paint Him all Lovely, Affable, and Young:
Then let it shew the vast advance His Youth
Has made in Honour, Eloquence, and Truth;
How none to Pleasure, e'er was less a Slave,
More throughly Noble, nor more early Brave.
VVith Him, his Gen'rous Brothers VVorth proclaim,
VVho what they owe Their Birth, will pay in Fame:
In Peace, they shall the Arts of Peace adorn,
Or War, if they for bloody War are born.
His Sisters, then shou'd be Triumphant shown,
Their Sables off, and all their Brightness on;
[Page 18]Warming where e'er their happy Influence flies,
Love in their Mien, and Conquest in their Eyes!
As justly shou'd the Fair Carnarvon's Name
Be handed with Her Niece's down to Fame:
She, who by Vertue, does assert Her Blood,
And values less Her Birth, than being Good:
That Sister, who so much His loss deplor'd,
And seem'd at last, as hard to be restor'd:
That Sister, who to save Him, wou'd have Dy'd,
Who all His Sickness, on Her Knees wou'd 'bide—
Ah! cou'd so bright a Suppli'ant be deny'd!
Let not her Num'rous Alms be hid in Night,
Tho Private done, and flying Human Sight:
Nor shou'd her Chastity thy Pen decline,
Th' Heireditary Vertue of the Line;—
Begin—and be thy Song as Famous, as thy Theme's Di­vine!
Ah Friends!—I grant my Duty owing there—
But first (ye Pow'rs) I'll first perform it here;
First with a bleeding Heart, and weeping Verse,
Pay my last Homage to Bertudor's Hearse.
That Office o'er, we to their Names will turn,
There truly Praise, as here we truly Mourn.—
—But no such Theme shall now the Muse employ,
No thought of Comfort! nor no dream of Joy!
Faithful to Grief, and wedded to my Moan,
All my Relief shall be—to hope for none!—
—Ha! Damon! where? whence came these dismal Cries?
Shriek'd out as they were Nature's Obsequies!
As if the Gen'ral Doom just now were bid,
And cleaving Earth were yielding up its Dead!
[Page 19]
To the same Cause of Grief the Country yields;
I spread the News through the Wiltonian Fields;
No longer now bemoan'd by Swain to Swain,
It gather's Head, and sweeps along the Plain:
Like an Impetuous Flood, it all o'er-bears—
The sadder Deluge, as 'tis made of Tears.
Lead on Menalcas.—This will be a Scene
Fit to Indulge the Sorrows I am in!
Hark! louder! How the sad affrighting Sound
Does from the Hills, back on the Plain rebound,
And tells us—Death can now no deeper Wound.
The Flocks and Herds run bleeting o'er the Plains,
And Sympathize with the Despairing Swains.
Some dismal Tydings, Heav'n's uncommon Rage,
In Groans of Thunder did last Night Presage:
The faithful Dogs in horrid Consorts Houl'd
And the fierce Woolves, Un-guarded found the Fold,
And Croaking Ravens Death and Woe foretold!
With Light'ning sing'd, the blasted Heath is bare,
And Horror is the sole Possessor there.—
But let us haste and join 'em, now their Grief
Is at the full, and hopeless of Relief:
Bertudor is their Theme—Bertudor we
Will cry, and Eccho back their Misery.
Bertudor! O Bertudor!—O no more!
For ever now no more!—
Away! and let me join the Weeping Throng,
To hear him Mourn'd, to hear his Praises Sung,
And die with the Dear NAME upon my Tongue!

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