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The Muses' sons no knee to Mammon bend;
No smiles from Mammon bless the Muses' train : 'Tis seldoin Fortune's rays with Fancy's blend;
Ill suit the arts of song with arts of gain! Each pulse for costly transport beating high;
Nor knowing on Distress to close thy door; Won by each siren note and plaintive sigh;
Howe'er it swell'd, full soon shall melt thy store! Then should not forward eager Friendship seek
Thy coy despair, resolved thine head to raise, Fast fades thine eye, and swiftly wastes thy cheek,
And Woe's last friend her beckon soon obeys! Silent thou lay'st thee down, resign'd to die;
Aid, but of Death, too stately to implore: No hand of thine, proud sufferer, e'er shall try Want's faint and fearful knock at Grandeur's
door. If ills like these, from thy warm heedless youth,
With watchful shield, thy guardian Genius ward; Thy social tenderness, thy social truth,
Ah! who from social agonies shall guard? All pale, I view thee, hanging o'er the bed,
Where he thou long hast valued breathless lies! To wake the dust thou wilt not know is dead,
Thy frantic grief with wildest effort tries ! The venom'd tooth that honied lips conceal, Which wounds each breast that takes the ser
pent in, Whose cruel bite even torpid bosoms feel, Oh! the keen torment it shall dart through
But chiefly shall thy throbbing bosom prove
tear, If she, whose powerful charms have won thy love,
Prove unpropitious to thy gentle prayer! Or should the faithless sunshine of her eye
Lure tender hope its timid bud to show, Soon to shrink back from cold inconstancy,
By chill inclement frowns forbid to blow; Or, foe of love, should some malignant star
Thy mistress, kind in vain and vainly true, From thine extended arms for ever bar,
And with relentless hate your loves pursue; Then, nor shall various scene, nor lonely sighs,
Nor Friendship's tongue, nor Wit's nor Wis
Nor all the charm the heavenly Muse supplies,
Thy breast's tempestuous sorrows soon assuage! For thee, quick kindling at each fairer beam,
To whom the glowing burning soul is given, For thee, all trembling in each dire extreme,
Love has no mean—'tis madness or 'tis heaven! But, oh! whate'er the louring cloud of woe That veils life's beauteous sunshine from thy
sight, Though stern Adversity around thee throw
The deepest shadows of her tragic night; In Horror's blackest hour, the hand restrain,
Wild service that would yield to mad Despair, The pointed steel with impious purple stain,
Or for death-thirsty lips the draught prepare.
FROM THE MOST EMINENT
PART VIII. Monodies, funereal Elegies, and Epitaphs.
Her heart lies with him in the ground,
Chiswick : PRINTED BY C. WHITTINGHAM ; FOR CHARLES S. ARNOLD, TAVISTOCK STREET,
COVENT GARDEN, LONDON.
Monodies, funereal Elegies, and Epitaphs.
In this Monody the author bewails a learned friend *, unfortu
nately drowned in his passage from Chester on the Irish seas, 1637: and by occasion foretells the ruin of our corrupted clergy, then in their height.
YET once more, O ye laurels, and once more,
* Edward King, Esq. the son of Sir John King, knight, secretary for Ireland. He was sailing from Chester to Ireland, on a visit to his friends in that country, when in cald weather, not far from the English coast, the ship struck upon a rock, and suddenly sank to the bottom with all that were on board, August 10, 1637. Mr. King was a fellow of Christ's College, Cambridge.