TO MISS SINGER,

(AFTERWARDS MRS. ROWE,)

ON THE SIGHT OF SOME OF HER DIVINE POEMS, NEVER PRINTED.

July 19, 1706.

On the fair banks of gentle Thames
I tun'd my harp; nor did celestial themes
Refuse to dance upon my strings:

There beneath the evening sky

I sung my cares asleep, and rais'd my wishes high
To everlasting things.

Sudden from Albion's western coast
Harmonious notes come gliding by,

The neighbouring shepherds knew the silver sound; "Tis Philomela's voice!' the neighbouring shepherds cry:

At once my strings all silent lie,

At once my fainting Muse was lost,
In the superior sweetness drown'd.
In vain I bid my tuneful powers unite;
My soul retir'd, and left my tongue,
I was all ear, and Philomela's song
Was all divine delight.

Now be my harp for ever dumb,

My Muse attempt no more.

I bid adieu to mortal things,

"Twas long ago

To Grecian tales, and wars of Rome,

Miss Singer published a volume of her 'Poems on seval Occasions,' under the name of Philomela.

"Twas long ago I broke all but the' immortal strings; Now those immortal strings have no employ, Since a fair angel dwells below,

To tune the notes of Heaven, and propagate the joy. Let all my powers with awe profound,

While Philomela sings,

Attend the rapture of the sound,

And my devotion rise on her seraphic wings.

HORE LYRICE.

BOOK III.

SACRED TO

THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.

AN EPITAPH ON

KING WILLIAM THE THIRD,

OF GLORIOUS MEMORY,

Who died March 8, 1701.

BENEATH these honours of a tomb
Greatness in humble ruin lies:
(How earth confines in narrow room
What heroes leave beneath the skies!)

Preserve, O venerable pile,

Inviolate thy sacred trust;

To thy cold arms the British isle,
Weeping, commits her richest dust.

Ye gentlest ministers of fate,

Attend the monarch as he lies; And bid the softest Slumbers wait With silken cords to bind his eyes.

Rest his dear sword beneath his head;
Round him his faithful arms shall stand:
Fix his bright ensigns on his bed,
The guards and honours of our land.

Ye sister Arts of paint and verse,
Place Albion fainting by his side,
Her groans arising o'er the hearse,
And Belgia sinking when he died.

High o'er the grave Religion set

In solemn guise; pronounce the ground Sacred, to bar unhallow'd feet,

And plant her guardian Virtues round.

Fair Liberty in sables dress'd,

Write his lov'd name upon his urn, • William, the scourge of tyrants past, And awe of princes yet unborn.'

Sweet Peace, his sacred relics keep,

With olives blooming round her head; And stretch her wings across the deep, To bless the nations with the shade.

Stand on the pile, immortal Fame,
Broad stars adorn thy brightest robe,
Thy thousand voices sound his name
In silver accents round the globe.

Flattery shall faint beneath the sound,
While hoary Truth inspires the song;
Envy grow pale and bite the ground,

And Slander gnaw her forky tongue.

Night and the grave remove your gloom;
Darkness becomes the vulgar dead;
But Glory bids the royal tomb
Disdain the horrors of a shade.

Glory with all her lamps shall burn,
And watch the warrior's sleeping clay,
Till the last trumpet rouse his urn
To aid the triumphs of the day.

EPITAPHIUM VIRI VENERABILIS

DOM. N. MATHER,

Carmine Lapidario conscriptum.

M. S.

REVERENDI ADMODUM VIRI

NATHANAELIS MATHERI.

QUOD mori potuit hic subtus depositum est, Si quæris hospes, quantus et qualis fuit, Fidus enarrabit lapis.

Nomen à familiâ duxit

Sanctioribus studiis et evangelio devotâ,
Et per utramque Angliam celebri,
Americanum se, atque Europæum.