Ducent ab obscura quiete
Ad laquear radiantis aulæ.

O fi daretur samina proprii
Tractare fusi pollice proprio,
Atque meum mihi fingere fatum;
Candidus vitæ color innocentis
Fila nativo decoraret albo
Non Tyriâ vitiata concha.
Non aurum, non'gemma nitens, tiec purpura telə 2:5
Intertexta forent invidiosa meæ.
Longè à triumphis, et fonitu tubæ
Longe' remotos tranfigerem dies :
Abstate fasces (splendida vanitas)
Et vos abftate, coronæ.

39 IV. Pro meo tecto casa fit, falubres Captet auroras, procul urbis atro Diftet à fumo, fugiatque longè Dura phthisis mala, dura tussis. Displicet Byrsa et fremitu molesto

Turba mercantûm; gratius alvear
Demulcet aures murmure, gratius
Fons salientis aquæ.

Litigiosa fori me terrent jurgia, lenes
Ad sylvas properans rixosas execror artes
Eminus in tuto à linguis---

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Blandimenta artis fimul æquus odi,
Valete, cives, et amæna fraudis
Verba; proh mores! et inane facri
Nomen amici!

Tuque quæ nostris inimica Mufis
Felle facratum vitias amorem,
Absis æternùm, diva libidinis
Et pharetrate puer!
Hinc, hinc, Cupido, longiùs avola?
Nil mihi cum fædis, puer, ignibus ;
Æthereâ fervent face pectora,
Sacra mihi Venus eft Urania,
Et juvenis Jessæus amor mihi.

Cæleste carmen (nec taceat lyra
Jeffæa) lætis auribus infonet,
Nec Watsianis è medullis
Ulla dies apiet vel hora.
Sacri libelli, deliciæ meæ,
Et vos, fodales, semper amabiles,
Nunc fimul adsitis, nunc vicissim,
Et fallite tædia vitæ.

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To Mrs. Singer, (now Mrs. Rowe),

On the fight of some of her divine poems, never printed.

July 19, 1706.

1. On the fair banks of gentle Thames I tun'd my harp, nor did celestial themes Refuse to dance upon my strings : There beneath th' ev'ning sky I sung my cares aflcep, and rais'd my wishes high ; To everlasting things. Sudden from Albion's western coast Harmonious notes come gliding by; The neighb’ring shepherds knew the filver sound; “ 'Tis Philomela's voice," the neighb'ring shepherds At once my strings all filent lie,

(cry. At once my fainting Muse was lost, In the superiour sweetness drown'd: În vain I bid my tuneful pow'rs 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 morc: 'twas long ago
I bid adieu to mortal things,
To Grecian tales and wars of Rome;

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'Twas long ago I broke all but th' immortal strings :
Now those immortal brings have no employ
Since a fair angel dwells below
To tune the notes of heav'n and propagate the joy:
Let all my pow'rs with awe profound,

While Philomela sings,
Attend the rapture of the sound,
And my deyotion rise on her feraphick wings. 29




An epitaph on King William 111. of glorious memor

, Who died March 8th, 1701-2. Beneath these honours of a tomb Greatriefs in humble rain lies : (How earth confines in narrow room What heroes leave'beneath the skies !)

2. Preserve, O venerable Pile!
Inviolate thy sacred trust;
To thy cold arms the British isle
Weeping commits het richeft duft,

8 3. Ye gentlest ministers of Fate Attend the Monarch as he lies, And bid the foftest numbers wait With silken cords to bind his eyes.

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

16 5. Ye sister-arts of Paint and Verse Place Albion fainting by his fide, Her groans arising o'er the hearse, And Belgia linking when he dy'd.



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