And he shall melt his wing that shall aspire Holland and France have known his nobler parts, TO HIS NOBLE FRIEND, CAPTAIN DUDLEY LOVELACE, UPON HIS EDITION OF HIS BROTHER'S POEMS. THY pious hand planting fraternal bays, Since 'tis the organ doth to us convey, Clear spirit, how much we are bound to thee, The truer worth of which by much exceeds The western wealth, which such contention breeds. Like the infusing-god, from the well-head Of poesy you have besprinkled Our brows with holy drops, the very last Which from your brother's happy pen were cast; Yet as the last the best, such matchless skill From his divine alembic did distil. Your honour'd brother in the Elysian shade For greatest grief a sovereign anodyne. Sir, from your brother you've convey'd us bliss; Now, since your genius so concurs with his, Let your own quill our next enjoyments frame, All must be rich that's grac'd with Lovelace' name. SIMON OGNELL, M. D. Coningbrens. ON THE TRULY HONOURABLE COLONEL RICHARD LOVELACE. OCCASIONED BY THE PUBLICATION OF HIS POSTHUME POEMS. ELEGY. GREAT Son of Mars! and of Minerva too! Whose happy pen so pleased amorous ears, Leaving a pattern to succeeding wits By which to sing forth their pythonic fits? Or to repine at thy felicity: Then whilst we chant out thine immortal praise, To tell the world how deep Fate's wounded wit, How th' active fire which cloth'd thy gen'rous mind, Until a stronger heat by death was given, But biting satires through the world must stray. And with the destinies do keep ado, Whom thus she queries: Could not you a while Of poems such as these, had been drawn up? Since things most perfect please their holy eyes, With so much learning and true virtue crown'd. 'Tis very just that God should have the best. SIMON OGNELL, M. D. Coningbrens. ON MY BROTHER. LOVELACE is dead! then let the world return To its first chaos, muffled in its urn; The stars and elements together lie Drench'd in perpetual obscurity; And the whole machine in confusion be, As immethodic as an anarchy; May the great eye of Day weep out his light, Pale Cynthia leave the regiment of Night, The Galaxy all in sables dight, Send forth no corruscations to our sight; The Sister-graces and the sacred Nine Th' account of virtues so transcendent high, Did I pronounce him dead! no, no, he lives, Spice-breathed fumes, whose odoriferous scent Or father Phoebus, who to th' world derives And snatch'd him hence before his thread was spun, T. L. ON THE DEATH OF MY DEAR BROTHER. ЕРІТАРН. TREAD (reader) gently, gently o'er The happy dust beneath this floor: An alabaster cabinet, Wherein both arts and arms were put, |