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Whom I began to think, and call my own :
MEMORY of Mr. OLDHA M.
AREWEL, too little, and too lately known,
For sure our souls were near allied, and thine
, Whilft his
young friend perform’d, and won the
O early, ripe! to thy abundant store
poets are by too much force betray'd, Vol. 11.
Thy gen’rous fruits, tho gather'd ere their prime, Still shew'd a quickness; and maturing time But mellows what we write, to the dull sweets
of rhyme. Once more, hail, and farewel; farewel, thou young But ah too short, Marcellus of our tongue ! Thy brows with ivy, and with laurels bound But fate and gloomy night encompass thee around:
Excellent in the Two SISTER-ARTS of
POE'S Y and PAINTIN G.
I. THOU youngest virgin-daughter of the skies,
Made in the last promotion of the blest; Whole palms, new pluck'd from paradise, In Aprcading brancheş more sublimely rise,
Rich with immortal green above the rest :
Or, in procession fix'd and regular,
Or, call’d to more superior bliss,
Since heaven's eternal year is thine.
In no ignoble verse
While yet a young probationer,
Our wonder is the less to find
But if thy pre-existing foul
Was form'd, at first, with myriads more, It did thro all the mighty poets roll,
Who Greek or Latin laurels wore, And was that Sappho laft, which once it was
before. If so, then cease thy flight, o heaven-born
mind ! Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore : Nor can thy foul a fairer mansion find,
Than was the beauteous frame she left behind: Return to fill or mend the choir of thy celestial kind,
Strung each his lyre, and tun'd it high,
That all the people of the sky
And then, if ever, mortal ears
And if no clust'ring swarm of bees
'Twas that such vulgar miracles
Heaven had not leisure to renew : For all thy blest fraternity of love Solemniz'd there thy birth, and kept thy holy-day above.
IV. O gracious God! how far have we Prophan'd thy heavenly gift of poesy? Made prostitute and profligate the Muse, Debas'd to each obscene and impious use, Whose harmony was first ordain'd above For tongues of angels, and for hymns of love ? O wretched we! why were we hurry'd down
This lubrique and adult’rate age, (Nay added fat pollutions of our own) T'increase the streaming ordures of the stage? What can we say t’excuse our second fall ? Let this thy vestal, heaven, atone for all : Her Arethufian stream remains unsoild, Unmix’d with foreign filth, and undefild; Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child.