Yet ftone and brafs our hopes betray,
Age fteals the mimic forms and characters away.
In vain, O Egypt, to the wondering skies
With giant pride thy pyramids arife;
Whate'er their vaft and gloomy valts contain, No names distinct of their great dread remain, Beneath the mafs confus'd, in heaps thy monarchs lie, Unknown, and blended in mortality.
To death our felves and all our works we owe.
But is there nought, O Mufe, can save
Our memories from darkness and the grave,
And fome fhort after-life bestow?
That task is mine, the Mufe replies,
And hark! the tunes the facred lyre!
Verfe is the laft of human works that dies,
When virtue does the fong infpire.
Then look, Eliza, happy faint, look down!
Paufe from immortal joys awhile
To hear, and gracious with a smile
The dedicated numbers own;
Say how in thy life's fcanty fpace,
So fhort a space, fo wondrous bright,
Bright as a funimer's day, fhort as a fummer's night, Could't thou find room for every crouded grace? As if thy thrifty foul foreknew,
Like a wife envoy, Heaven's intent Soon to recall whom it had fent, And all its task refolv'd at once to do.
Or wert thou but a traveller below,
That hither didft awhile repair,
Curious our customs and our laws to know?
And, fickening in our groffer air,
And tir'd of vain repeated fights,
Our foolish cares, our falfe delights,
Back to thy native feats would't go?
Oh! fince to us thou wilt no more return,
Permit thy friends, the faithful few
Who beft thy numerous virtues knew,
Themfelves, not thee to mourn.
Now, penfive Mufe, enlarge thy flight!
(By turns the penfive Mufes love
The hilly heights and shady grove)
Behold where, fwelling to the fight,
Balls, a fair structure, graceful stands!
And from yon verdant rifing brow
Sees Hertford's ancient town, and lands
Where Nature's hand in flow meanders leads
The Lee's clear fream its courfe to flow
Through flowery vales, and moiften'd meads,
And far around in beauteous profpects spreads
Her map of plenty all below.
'Twas here—and sacred be the spot of earth !
Eliza's foul, born first above,
Defcended to an humbler birth,
And with a mortal's frailties ftrove.
So, on fome towering peak that meets the sky,
When miffive feraphs downward fly,
They stop, and for awhile alight.
Put off their rays coeleftial-bright,
Then take fome milder form familiar to our eye.
Swiftly her infant virtues grew :
Water'd by Heaven's peculiar care
Her morning bloom was doubly fair,
Like fummer's day-break, when we see
The fresh-drop'd stores of rofy dew,
(Tranfparent beauties of the dawn)
Spread o'er the grafs their cobweb-lawn,
Or hang moist pearls on every tree.
Pleas'd with the lovely fight awhile
Her friends behold, and joyful fmile,
Nor think the fun's exhaling ray
Will change the fcene ere noon of day,
Dry up the glittering drops, and draw thofe dews away.
Yet first, to fill her orb of life,
Behold, in each relation dear,
The pious faint, the duteous child appear,
The tender fifter, and the faithful wife.
Alas! but must one circlet of the year
Unite in blifs, in grief divide
The deftin'd bridegroom and the bride?
Stop, generous youth, the gathering tear,
That as you read thefe lines or hear
P 2
Perhaps may ftart, and feem to fay,
That fhort-liv'd year was but a day!
Forbear-nor fruitless forrowings now employ,
Think he was lent awhile, not given,
(Such was th' appointed will of Heaven) Then grateful call that year an age of virtuous joy.
PRINTED AT THE BREAKING OUT OF THE
REBELLION IN THE YEAR 1715.
II E man that loves his king and nation,
And fhuns each vile affociation,
That trufts his honeft deeds i' th' light,
Nor meets in dark cabals, by night,
With fools, who, after much debate,
Get themfelves hang'd, and fave the state,
Needs not his hall with weapons store;
Nor dreads each rapping at his door;
Nor fculks, in fear of being known,
Or hides his guilt in parfon's gown;
Nor wants, to guard his generous heart,
The poniard or the poifon'd dart;
And, but for ornament and pride,
A sword of lath might cross his fide.
If o'er St. James's park he ftray,
He ftops not, paufing in his way;
Nor pulls his hat down o'er his face,
Nor ftarts, looks back, and mends his pace:
Or if he ramble to the Tower,
He knows no crime, and dreads no power,
But thence returning, free as wind,
Smiles at the bars he left behind.
Thus, as I loiter'd t' other day,
Humming-O every month was May-
And, thoughtless how my time I fquander'd,
From Whitehall, through the Cockpit wander'd,
A meffenger with furly eye,
View'd me quite round, and yet pafs'd by.
No fharper look or rougher mien
In Scottish highlands e'er were feen;
Nor ale and brandy ever bred
More pimpled cheeks, or nofe more red;
And yet, with both hands in my breast,
Careless I walk'd, nor fhunn'd the beast.
Place me among a hundred fpies,
Let all the room be ears and eyes;
Or fearch my pocket-books and papers,
No word or line fhall give me vapours.
Send me to Whigs as true and hearty,
As ever pity'd poor Maccarty;
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