From me for ever be exil'd

Gay Venus, and her wanton child,

His bow, his quiver fledg'd with darts: Before them every science flies,

And all celestial ardour dies,

When once their poison taints our hearts.

Cupid, avaunt with all thy fires!
Seraphic flame my soul inspires,
My joys in purer channels run;
My Venus is the heaven-born Muse,
The youth, that for my guest I choose,
Is Jesse's soul-enlivening son.

With what a sovereign sweep he flings
His arm across the sounding strings!
What notes inimitable rise!
Astonish'd at his tuneful pow'rs,
What raptures entertain my hours,

And bear my spirit to the skies!

Anon withdrawing from the Muse,
I'd from my sacred treasure choose.

Some volume, and its wisdom weigh;
Till a choice few, where friendship burns,
Now in full circle, now by turns,

With social bliss should crown the day,

1

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 shepherd's 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.

'Twas long ago

I bid adieu to mortal things,

To Grecian tales, and wars of Rome,

Miss Singer published a volume of her 'Poems on several Oc

casions,' 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.

Bb 2

HORE LYRICÆ.

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 gentle 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.