ON THE MEMORY OF Mr. CALEB SKINNER, and Mr. HEZEKIAH MIDDLETON; Merchants.
Who were Drowned at BLACK-WALL, Coming from on Board a SHIP the 5th of May. 1688.

PAtience a while, unruly Tears! My Pen
Must Weep, and you shall have your turns again.
—Come all you Artless Passions, Grief and Love,
Frustrated Hopes, and Sickly wan Despair;
Beat all your Throbing Breasts, and rend your Hair;
Till every thing but Destiny you move:
Nor need you fear Disturbance from the rest;
All the white Passions now are flown away,
Each smiling Motion leaves the frighted Breast
Of our Unhappy Swains: Joy will not stay,
Nor Bliss, nor Pleasure sweet, nor calm Delight;
Deep, deep! They vanish into Endless Night:
Not one poor Hope we from the Wrack cou'd save,
All with the Shepherds sunk, beneath the Greedy Wave.
You Nymphs who rowl from far to Father Thames,
The Eternal Tribute of our Christal Streams;
Keep not one Drop behind! Wring out each Urn,
And our Unhappy Shepherds help to mourn.
Ask not their Names; In every Eye you'll read
'Tis Tityrus, and Celadon are dead.
Ah Tityrus! How oft in Youthful Years,
As Merry as the Spring that bloom'd around,
Below the Tyranny of Hopes and Fears,
We've worn the happy thoughtless Hours away,
With Rustick Garlands oft each other Crown'd;
Blithe as the Morn, and Jocund as the Day.
How often gaz'd upon the Dimpled Wave?
And smil'd like that which softly stole along,
As listning to a Shepherds humble Song!
In vain we boast of Gifts which Phoebus gave,
Of Foresight deep, and Providence Divine.
How little dreamt I then the Fates Design,
That such must be th' Unhappy Shepherds Grave.
Thee Celadon, although to me unknown,
Thee! Partner of my Tityrus's Fate;
With him I wail, share thou in every Groan,
Share thou with him in his Immortal State:
Enter with him the Muses Golden Gate.
Thee Celadon! Who though unknown to me;
Where sunk in th' Crowd my self unknown I lie,
Piping my Oaten Tunes, did'st mount more High;
And Crowds, and Men, and Towns, and Cities see,
And all the Worlds mistaken Gaiety.
Unmov'd thou saw'st 'em all, did'st all o'ercome,
And with thee brought thy Russet Vertue Home.
Thou dar'st be still Unfashionably brave;
No drop of Blood about thee, call'd the Slave.
Ah! Was that Vertue made to set so soon,
Must such a Sun be Clouded e'er 'tis Noon:
And e'er he half the round of Life gets o'er,
Be drench'd in that wide Sea that knows no shore;
Thames was his Sea, and there he sets, to rise no more.
He was too great for Clajus to commend,
Just great enough for Tityrus his Friend.
Close in each others Arms, see where they lie!
Unminding, or Unfearing Hovering Fate;
Or had they known 't, how could they better die?
How could they be laid out in greater State?
Both gently lean'd upon the others Breast;
Thus both together Glided soft to Endless Rest:
Bright Shades! For you who only set to rise,
To rise again, and shine in brighter Skies:
To Pity you were almost Blasphemy,
Than Death, could any greater Blessing be;
Sure Tityrus 't had been bestow'd on thee.
Our selves let's Pity then, for they're above,
All but our Imitation and our Love:
Come then you Shepherds, come you sighing Swains!
View on yon Oozy Bank, their sad remains;
Where's now that Honey which so oft has flown
From their Dear Lips? where all that lively Grace?
Livid and Black, and all Deform'd they're grown,
And Death and Horror revel in their Face!
Bloated and swoln their Eyes, and dull and dead,
Mud in their Hands, and Weeds about their Head.
Away you common Griefs, here comes a Tide
That overwhelms the distant Fields, on either side:
Is any here so large a share can claim,
As can a Mothers or a Sisters Name:
See where across the crowded Strand they fly,
And through the opening Ring of Gazers come?
But only on his Face can Weeping lye,
Rigid as he, and Cold, and Pale, and Dumb:
See where old Reverend Father Thames the while
Sits sad and Pensive, on some Neighbouring Isle.
His Reedy Garland from his Brows he throws;
He throws his Meadow-sweet, and Flowers away,
Dull and unguided, see his Chariot goes;
And where they please, he lets his Waters stray.
His cursed guilty Water's now as black
As Acheron, or Styx's Lazy Lake.
He does of them, and they of Fate complain,
And both rowl deeply Murmuring in the Main.
The Silver Medway greets them as they pass,
And ask why they such dismal Pomp put on;
But not a Word they Answer, save Alas!
Alas! Poor Tityrus and Celadon.

This may be Printed.

Robert Midgley.

LONDON: Printed for J. H. for the Use of the Friends of the Deceased.

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