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Heaven would no longer trust its pledge; but thus
Recall'd it; rapt its Ganymede from us.

Was there no milder way but the small-pox,

The very filthinefs of Pandora's box?

So many spots, like næves on Venus' foil,
One jewel fet off with fo many a foil;

Blifters with pride fwell'd, which through's flesh did sprout Like rofe-buds, ftuck i'th' lily-fkin about.

Each little pimple had a tear in it,

To wail the fault its rifing did commit:
Which, rebel-like, with it's own lord at strife,
Thus made an infurrection 'gainst his life.
Or were these gems fent to adorn his skin,
The cab'net of a richer foul within ?
No comet need foretel his change drew on,
Whofe corps might feem a conftellation.
O! had he dy'd of old, how great a ftrife

Had been, who from his death should draw their life?
Who fhould, by one rich draught, become whate'er
Seneca, Cafo, Numa, Cæfar, were?

Learn'd, virtuous, pious, great; and have by this
An univerfal metempfychofis.

Muft all these aged fires in one funeral

Expire? all die in one fo young, fo fmall?
Who, had he liv'd his life out, his great fame
Had fwol'n 'bove any Greek or Roman name.
But hafty winter, with one blaft, hath brought
The hopes of autumn, fummer, fpring, to nought.
Thus fades the oak i'th' sprig, i'th' blade the corn;
Thus without young, this Phoenix dics, new-bern.

Muft then old three-legg'd grey-beards with their gout, Catarrhs, rheums, aches, live three long ages out? Time's offals, only fit for th' hospital!

Or to hang antiquaries rooms withal !

Muft drunkards, lechers, fpent with finning, live
With fuch helps as broths, poffets, phyfic give?
None live, but such as should die? fhall we meet
With none but ghoftly fathers in the street?
Grief makes me rail; forrow will force its way;
And showers of tears tempeftuous fighs beft lay.
The tongue may fail; but overflowing eyes
Will weep out lafting ftreams of elegies.

But thou, O virgin-widow, left alone,
Now thy beloved, heaven-ravish'd spouse is gone,
Whofe fkilful fire in vain ftrove to apply
Med'cines, when thy balm was no remedy,
With greater than platonic love, O wed
His foul, though not his body, to thy bed:
Let that make thee a mother; bring thou forth
Th' ideas of his virtue, knowledge, worth;
Transcribe th' original in new copies; give
Haftings o'th' better part: fo fhall he live
In's nobler half; and the great grandfire be
Of an heroic divine progeny :

An iffue, which t'eternity shall last,
Yet but th'irradiations which he cast.
Erect no maufoleums: for his best
Monument is his spouse's marble breast.

HEROIC STANZAS on the Death of OLIVER CROMWELL, written after his Funeral.

I.

ND now 'tis time; for their officious haste,

AN

Who would before have borne him to the sky, Like eager Romans, ere all rites were paft, Did let too foon the facred eagle fly.

II.

Though our beft notes are treason to his fame,
Join'd with the loud applause of public voice;
Since heaven, what praise we offer to his name,
Hath render'd too authentic by its choice.

III.

Though in his praise no arts can liberal be,
Since they, whose Muses have the highest flown,
Add not to his immortal memory,

But do an act of friendship to their own :
IV.

Yet 'tis our duty, and our interest too,
Such monuments as we can build to raise;
Left all the world prevent what we should do,
And claim a title in him by their praise.

V.

How shall I then begin, or where conclude,
To draw a fame fo truly circular;

For in a round what order can be fhew'd,

Where all the parts fo equal perfect are?

Thy trumpet founds, the dead are rais'd to light,
Never to die, and take to heaven their flight;
Deck'd in thy verse, as clad with rays they shine,
All glorified, immortal, and divine.

As Britain in rich foil abounding wide,
Furnish'd for use, for luxury, and pride,
Yet fpreads her wanton fails on every shore
For foreign wealth, in fatiate ftill of more;
To her own wool the filks of Afia joins,
And to her plenteous harvests India's mines;
So Dryden, not contented with the fame
Of his own works, though an immortal name,
To lands remote fends forth his learned mufe,
The nobleft feeds of foreign wit to choose :
Feafting our sense so
many various ways,
Say, is't thy bounty, or thy thirst of praise?
That, by comparing others, all might fee,
Who moft excel, are yet excell'd by thee.

o Mr. DRYDEN, by JOSEPH ADDISON, Efq.

HOW long, great poet, fhall thy facred lays Provoke our wonder, and transcend our praise!

Can neither injuries of time, or age,

Damp thy poetic heat, and quench thy rage?

Not fo thy Ovid in his exile wrote;

Grief chill'd his breaft, and check'd his rifing thought'; Pensive and sad, his drooping muse betrays

The Roman genius in its laft decays.

Prevailing warmth has ftill thy mind poffeft, And fecond youth is kindled in thy breast.

Taou mak'ft the beauties of the Romans known,
And England boafts of riches not her own :
Thy lines have heighten'd Virgil's majesty,
And Horace wonders at himself in thee.
Tou teacheft Perfius to inform our ifle
fimoother numbers, and a clearer style:
And Juvenal, inftructed in thy page,
Elges his fatire, and improves his rage.
Thy copy cafts a fairer light on all,
And ftill outfhines the bright original.
Now Ovid boasts th' advantage of thy fong,
And tells his ftory in the British tongue;
Thy charming verfe, and fair tranflations show
How thy own laurel first began to grow;
How wild Lycaon, chang'd by angry Gods,

And frighted at himself, ran howling thro' the woods. O may'st thou still the noble tale prolong,

Nor

age, nor sickness interrupt thy song :
Then may we wondering read, how human limbs
Have water'd kingdoms, and diffolv'd in streams,
Of thofe rich fruits that on the fertile mould
Turn'd yellow by degrees, and ripen'd into gold:
How fome in feathers, or a ragged hide,

Have liv'd a fecond life, and different natures try'd.
Then will thy Ovid, thus transform'd, reveal
A nobler change than he himself can tell.

Mag. Coll. Oxon.

June 2, 1693.

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