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And he shall melt his wing that shall aspire
To reach a fancy or one accent higher.

Holland and France have known his nobler parts,
And found him excellent in arms, and arts.
To sum up all, few men of fame but know
He was tam Marti, quam Mercurio.

TO HIS NOBLE FRIEND,

CAPTAIN DUDLEY LOVELACE,

UPON HIS EDITION OF HIS BROTHER'S POEMS.

THY pious hand planting fraternal bays,
Deserving is of most egregious praise;

Since 'tis the organ doth to us convey,
From a descended sun, so bright a ray.

Clear spirit, how much we are bound to thee,
For this so great a liberality,

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
Will joy to know himself a laureat made
By your religious care, and that his urn,
Doth him on earth immortal life return.
Yourself you have a good physician shown,
To his much grieved friends, and to your own,
In giving this elixir'd medicine,

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!
With what oblations must we come to woo
Thy sacred soul to look down from above,
And see how much thy memory we love,

Whose happy pen so pleased amorous ears,
And lifting bright Lucasta to the spheres,
Her in the star-bespangled orb did set,
Above fair Ariadne's coronet;

Leaving a pattern to succeeding wits

By which to sing forth their pythonic fits?
Shall we bring tears and sighs! no, no, then we
Should but bemoan ourselves for losing thee,
Or else thy happiness seem to deny,

Or to repine at thy felicity:

Then whilst we chant out thine immortal praise,
Our offerings shall be only sprigs of bays;
And if our tears will needs their brinks out-fly,
We'll weep them forth into an elegy,

To tell the world how deep Fate's wounded wit,
When Atropos the lovely Lovelace hit;

How th' active fire which cloth'd thy gen'rous mind,
Consum'd the water and the earth calcin'd,

Until a stronger heat by death was given,
Which sublimated thy poor soul to heaven.
Thou knew'st right well to guide the warlike steed,
And yet couldst court the Muses with full speed,
And such success, that the inspiring Nine
Have fill'd their Thespian fountain so with brine,
Henceforth we can expect no lyric lay,

But biting satires through the world must stray.
Bellona joins with fair Erato too,

And with the destinies do keep ado,

Whom thus she queries: Could not you a while
Reprieve his life until another file

Of poems such as these, had been drawn up?
The fates replied: that, thou wert taken up
A sacrifice unto the deities:

Since things most perfect please their holy eyes,
And that no other victim could be found,

With so much learning and true virtue crown'd.
Since it is so, in peace for ever rest:

'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
Statu'd with grief, attend upon his shrine.
Whose worth, whose loss, should we but truly rate,
'Twould puzzle our arithmetic, to state

Th' account of virtues so transcendent high,
Number and value reach infinity.

Did I pronounce him dead! no, no, he lives,
And from his aromatic cell he gives

Spice-breathed fumes, whose odoriferous scent
(In zephyr-gales which never can be spent)
Doth spread itself abroad, and much outvies,
The eastern bird in her self-sacrifice:

Or father Phoebus, who to th' world derives
Such various and such multiformed lives,
Took notice that brave Lovelace did inspire
The universe with his Promethean fire,

And snatch'd him hence before his thread was spun,
Env'ing that here should be another sun.

T. L.

ON THE

DEATH OF MY DEAR BROTHER.

ЕРІТАРН.

TREAD (reader) gently, gently o'er

The happy dust beneath this floor:
For, in this narrow vault is set

An alabaster cabinet,

Wherein both arts and arms were put,
Like Homer's Iliads in a nut;

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