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On the Death of Mrs. Bowes. Written extempore on a card, in a great deal of company, Dec. 14, 1724,

by Lady Mary Wortley Montague.
HAIL happy bride, for thou art traly blent!

rett.
Merit, like yours, was heaven's peculiar care,
You lov'd-yet tafted happiness sincere.
To you the sweets of love were only thewn,
The fure succeeding bitter dregs unknown;
You had not yet the fatal change deplor'd,
The tender lover, for the imperious lord :
Nor felt the pain that jealous fondness brings;
Nor felt the coldness, from poffesfion springs.
Above your sex, diftinguith'd in your fate,
You trusted yet experienced no deceit ;
Soft were your hours, and wing'd with pleasure flow;
No vain repentance gave a figh to you :
And if fuperior bliss heaven can beitow,
With fellow angels you enjoy it now.

An ELEGY. On the death of General WOLTE.

Et tumulum facite, et tumulo fuperaddike carmen.
BEGIN, begin the forrow-Soothing theme,

Let'grief pour forth her melancholy tale ;
In plaintive murmurs join me every stream,
In plaintive echoes answer every vale.
From shouts of vi&t’ry and from songs of pow'r,
From conqueft's joys the youths, the virgins ay ;
Give to the dead one praise-devoted hour.
In many a maiden tear, and manly figh.
To laurel crowns the cypress garlands join,
And give his hov'ring thade the plaintive song ;
Who round our brows bade vi&'ry's wreath to twine,
With vi&try's Thout who bleft each joyful tongue.
What tho' not mine to wake the loud-ton'd string,
And paint the scenes of blood in equal lays;
What tho' not mine the hero's worth to fing,
Not mine to give to virtue virtue's praise ;
With uncouth rhime yet I may deck the grave,
With honeft grief ev'n I may wet the bier ;
And oft, where sleep the virtuous and the brave,
Give humble verse, and drop the tender tear.

No

No private lofs, no clofe domestic tye,
No partial grief I murmur all alone;
I join a nation in the heart-felt figh,
And speak à people's forrow in my own.
What are the strokes that wound domestic rest,
That break the social bliss of humble life ;
The secret pangs that rack the faithful breaft,
When falls the friend, the parent, or the wife :
To those that public forrows well beftow,
When patriot ashes fill the facred urn;
When nations consecrate the figh of woe,
And with united voice a people mourn
Come then, O come, our Britain's loss deplorey
Let in this death each private ill be drown'd!
Our soldier, hero, conqu'ror is no more,
And every Briton feels his country's wound.
How patient He her martial fons to lead,
Amidst the summer's fun, or winter's snow:
How firm to act whate'er her voice decreed,
And deal quick vengeance on the distant foe!
Brave, not revengeful, cautious, not dismay'd,
His country's glory lab'ring in his thought;
How oft the field of death his eye survey'd,
The stroke of death how oft his bosom fought!
Some duties on life's narrower scenes attend,
Some toils domestic happiness must share;
Some pains await the fondness of a friend,
Each filial duty and parental care!
And ftill to these the tribute due we give,
Their virtuous deeds in songs of praise rehearse ;
With humble reverence bless them while they live,
And crown their graves with many a tender verse.
What then the duc desert when patriot zeal
Bids private cares to public labours yield;
When private virtue owns the common weal,
And meets her dangers in the fatal field ?
When torn from humbler scenes where life's long date
Feels but the flow decays of ling'ring age;
In distant climes we dare an early fate,
From baneful skies, or war's more baneful rage ?
Say then what tongue our country's lofs shall cell,
What pen shall grace the tributary stone,
That shews her weeping sons how nobly fell
Her soldier, hero, patriot, friend, in one.

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On the Death of Mrs. Boweg. Written extempore on a card, in a great deal of company, Dec. 14, 1724,

by Lady Mary Wortley Montague. НА

AIL happy bride, for thou art truly blest !

Three months of rapture, crown'd with endless relt.
Merit, like yours, was heaven's peculiar care,
You lov'd—yet tasted happiness sincere.
To you the sweets of love were only shewn,
The fure succeeding bitter dregs unknown ;
You had not yet the fatal change deplor'd,
The tender lover, for the imperious lord :
Nor felt the pain that jealous fondness brings ;
Nor felt the coldness, from poffeffion springs.
Above your sex, distinguish'd in your fate,
You trusted yet experienced no deceit ;
Soft were your hours, and wing'd with pleasure few;
No vain repentance gave a figh to you :
And if superior bliss heaven can bestow,
With fellow angels you enjoy it now.

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An E'LE G Y. On the death of General WOLFE.

Et tumulum facite, et tumulo fuperaddite carmen.
BEGIN, begin the forrow-Soothing theme,

Let grief pour forth her melancholy tale ;
In plaintive murmurs join me every stream,
In plaintive echoes answer every vale.
From souts of vi&try and from fongs of pow'r,
From conqueft's joys the youths, the virgins fy;
Give to the dead one praise-devoted hour.
In many a maiden tear, and manly figh.
To laurel crowns the cypress garlands join,
And give his hov'ring made the plaintive song;
Who round our brows bade vict'ry's wreath to twine,
With vi&try's shout who bleft each joyful tongue.
What tho' not mine to wake the loud-ton'd string,
And paint the scenes of blood in equal lays;
What tho' not mine the hero's worth to fing,
Not mine to give to virtue virtue's praise ;
With uncouth rhime yet I may deck the grave,
With honest grief ev'n I may wet the bier ;
And oft, where sleep the virtuous and the brave,
Give humble verse, and drop the tender tear.

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No private lofs, no clofe domestic tye,
No partial grief I murmur all alone;
I join a nation in the heart-felt figh,
And fpeak a people's forrow in my own.
What are the strokes that wound domestic reft,
That break the social bliss of humble life ;
The secret pangs that rack the faithful breaft,
When falls the friend, the parent, or the wife :
To those that public forrows well bestow,
When patriot ashes fill the facred urn;
When nations consecrate the figh of woe,
And with united voice a people mourn
Come then, O come, our Britain's loss deplorey
Let in this death each private ill be drown'd!
Our soldier, hero, conqu’ror is no more,
And every Briton feels his country's wound.
How patient He her martial fons to lead,
Amidst the summer's sun, or winter's snow :
How firm to act whate'er her voice decreed,
And-deal quick vengeance on the distant foe!
Brave, not revengeful, cautious, not dismay'd,
Mis country's glory lab'ring in his thought;
How oft the field of death his eye survey'd,
The stroke of death how oft his bofom fought!
Some duties on life's narrower scenes attend,
Some toils domestic happiness must share ;
Some pains await the fondness of a friend,
Each filial duty and parental care!
And still to these the tribute due we give,
Their virtuous deeds in songs of praise rehearse ;
With humble reverence bless them while they live,
And crown their graves with many a tender verse.
What then the due desert when patriot zeal
Bids private cares to public labours yield;
When private virtue owns the common weal,
And meets her dangers in the fatal field ?
When torn from humbler scenes where life's long date
Feels but the flow decays of ling'ring age ;
In diftant climes we dare an early fate,
From baneful skies, or war's more baneful rage ?
Say then what tongue our country's lofs shall tell,
What pen

shall

grace the tributary stone, That Mews her weeping sons how nobly fell Her foldier, hero, patriot, friend, in one.

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Yet still the breath of penury severe,

Ah! too untimely, nipt the tender shoot-
If such the first attempt, then much we fear

The product of our pains, “ The rip'ning fruit."
The widow'd blackbird oft is heard to moan

Her hapless confort's melancholy fate,
And many a helpless swain now droops forlorn

O'er the dusk lawn, and does this tale relate..
But still fome breast with generous ardour glows,

To guard fair science in this favour'd ise,
Not all to poetry alike are foes,

But deign the grace of an applauding smile.
'Twas Shenstone's choice to raise with gentleft care

The tender fhoot of blooming fancy's tree,
To stamp a genuine mark on what was rare,

And bid each muse-fir'd poet • dare be free."
How oft, as thro' + th' Arcadian groves he ftray'd,

The glad’ning impulse did his soul inspire,
How oft reclining in the bow'ry fhade,

Wake into extasy the muse's lyre !
Sweet moralift! the pride of Albion's coaft,

Fell a fad victim to tyrannic death;
To Dodr-y, me, and to his country loft,

When SHENSTONE's tuneful lips resign'd their breath.
To thee, my SHENSTONE, gratitude shall pay

This duteous tribute of a high fincere,
And, true to honour's never-venal lay,
These accents shall pursue thy sacred bier.
Worcestershire.

PHILANDER.

An O DE on St. Cæcilia's Day, adapted to the ancient British music,

viz. the falt-box, the Jews harp, the marrow-bones and cleavers, the bum-ftrum or hurdy-gurdy, &c. as it was performed on June 10, as Ranelagh. By Bonnel Thornton, Esq.

Cedite, Tibicines Itali, vos cedite, Galli;

Dico iterum vobis, cedite, Tibicines.
Cedite, Tibicines, vobis ter dico; quaterque
Jam vobis dico, cedite, Tibicines.

Alex. Heinsius.

Witness his generosity to a poor shoemaker of Rowley, in that neighbourhood, whom he thought to have a great naturai genius fer poetry. * His gardens.

R2

Translation

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