TO THE MEMORY of Mr. OLDHAM. F AREWEL, too little, and too lately known, Whom I began to think, and call my own: For fure our fouls were near allied, and thine Caft in the fame poetic mould with mine. One common note on either lyre did strike, And knaves and fools we both abhorr'd alike. To the fame goal did both our studies drive; The last set out, the fooneft did arrive. Thus Nifus fell upon the flipp'ry place, Whilft his young friend perform'd, and won the race. O early ripe! to thy abundant store What could advancing age have added more? Thy gen'rous fruits, tho gather'd ere their prime, Still fhew'd a quicknefs; and maturing time. But mellows what we write, to the dull fweets of rhyme. Once more, hail, and farewel; farewel, thou young, But ah too fhort, Marcellus of our tongue! ; Thy brows with ivy, and with laurels bound Mrs. ANNE KILLIGREW, Excellent in the Two SISTER-ARTS of POESY and PAINTING. AN O D E. I. HOU youngest virgin-daughter of the skies, Made in the last promotion of the blest; Whofe palms, new pluck'd from paradife, In fpreading branches more fublimely rife, Rich with immortal green above the reft: Thou tread'st, with feraphims, the vast abyss : Cease thy celestial song a little space; Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine, Since heaven's eternal year is thine. Hear then a mortal muse thy praise rehearse, ; But fuch as thy own voice did practise here, And candidate of heaven. II. If by traduction came thy mind, But if thy pre-existing foul Was form'd, at firft, 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 fo, then ceafe thy flight, O heaven-born mind! Thou haft no drofs to purge from thy rich ore Than was the beauteous frame fhe left behind: Return to fill or mend the choir of thy celestial kind. IH. May we prefume to fay, that, at thy birth, New joy was fprung in heaven, as well as here on earth. For fure the milder planets did combine On thy aufpicious horofcope to fhine, And e'en the most malicious were in trine. Strung each his lyre, and tun'd it high, Might know a poetess was born on earth. Had heard the mufic of the fpheres. And if no cluft'ring fwarm of bees On thy fweet mouth diftill'd their golden dew, 'Twas that fuch vulgar miracles Heaven had not leisure to renew: For all thy bleft fraternity of love Solemniz'd there thy birth, and kept thy holy-day above. IV. O gracious God! how far have we (Nay added fat pollutions of our own) Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child. |