Sudden from Albion's western coaft

Harmonious notes come gliding by,

The neighbouring fhepherds knew the filver found;
""Tis Philomela's voice, the neighbouring fhepherds
cry;"

At once my ftrings all filent lie,
At once my fainting Mufe was loft,
In the fuperior sweetness drown'd.
In vain I bid my tuneful powers unite;
My foul retir'd, and left my tongue,
I was all ear, and Philomela's fong
Was all divine delight.

Now be my harp for ever dumb,

My Mufe attempt no more.

I bid adieu to mortal things,

'Twas long ago

To Grecian tales, and wars of Rome,

'Twas long ago I broke all but th' immortal strings: Now thofe 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 fings,

Attend the rapture of the found,

And my devotion rife on her feraphic wings.

STANZAS

STANZAS TO LADY SUNDERLAND,

AT TUNBRIDGE WELLS.

FAIR Nymph, afcend to Beauty's throne,

And rule that radiant world alone:

Let favourites take thy lower sphere,
Not Monarchs are thy rival here.

The Court of Beauty, built fublime,
Defies all powers but thine and Time:
Envy, that clouds the hero's sky,
Aims but in vain her flight fo high.

Not Blenheim's field, nor Ifter's flood,
Nor standards dy'd in Gallic blood,
Torn from the foe, add nobler grace
To Churchill's houfe, than Spencer's face.
The warlike thunder of his arms
Is more commanding than her charms
His lightning ftrikes with lefs furprise
Than fudden glances from her eyes.
His captives feel their limbs confin'd
In iron; fhe enflaves the mind:
We follow with a pleafing pain,
And bless the conqueror and the chain.
The Mufe, that dares in numbers do
What paint and pencil never knew,
Faints at her presence in despair,

And owns th' inimitable Fair.

End of the Second Book.

1712.

HORÆ LYRICÆ.

BOOK

III.

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.

AN EPITAPH ON KING WILLIAM III, OF GLORIOUS MEMORY.

B

Who died March the 8th, 1701.

ENEATH thefe honours of a tomb,

Greatnefs in humble ruin lies:

(How earth confines in narrow room What heroes leave beneath the skies!)

Preferve, O venerable pile,

Inviolate thy facred truft;

To thy cold arms the British isle,
Weeping, commits her richeft duft.

Ye gentleft minifters of Fate,
Attend the monarch as he lies,
And bid the fofteft Slumbers wait
With filken cords to bind his eyes.

Reft

Reft his dear Sword beneath his head;
Round him his faithful Arms fhall ftand:
Fix his bright Enfigns on his bed,
The guards and honours of our land.

Ye fifter arts of Paint and Verse,
Place Albion fainting by his fide,
Her groans arifing o'er the hearfe,
And Belgia finking when he dy'd.
High o'er the grave Religion fet
In folemn gold; pronounce the ground
Sacred, to bar unhallow'd feet,

And plant her guardian Virtues round.

Fair Liberty in fables dreft,

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

Sweet Peace his facred relicks keep,
With olives blooming round her head,
And stretch her wings across the deep
To blefs the nations with the fhade.

Stand on the pile, immortal Fame,
Broad ftars adorn thy brightest robe,
Thy thousand voices found his name
In filver accents round the globe.

Flattery fhall faint beneath the found,
While hoary Truth infpires the fong;
Envy grow pale and bite the ground,

And Slander gnaw her forky tongue,

Night

Night and the grave remove your gloom;
Darkness becomes the vulgar dead;

But glory bids the royal tomb
Difdain the horrors of a shade.

Glory with all her lamps fhall burn,
And watch the warrior's fleeping clay,
Till the laft trumpet roufe his urn
To aid the triumphs of the day.

On the fudden DEATH of Mrs. MARY PEACOCK.

An Elegiac Song fent in a Letter of Condolance to Mr. N. P. Merchant, at Amfterdam.

HARK! She bids all her friends adieu;

Some angel calls her to the fpheres ;

Our eyes the radiant faint purfue

Through liquid telescopes of tears.

Farewell, bright foul, a fhort farewell,
Till we thall meet again above

In the fweet groves where pleafures dwell,
And trees of life bear fruits of love:

There glory fits on every face,

There friendship fmiles in every eye,
There fhall our tongues relate the grace

That led us homeward to the sky.

Q'er