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And I myself, who now love quiet too,
As much almost as any chair can do,
Would yet a journey take,
An old wheel of that chariot to see,
Which Phaeton so rashly brake: [Drake
Yet what could that say more than these remains of
Great relick! thou too, in this port of ease,
Hast still one way of making voyages;
The breath of Fame, like an auspicious gale
(The great trade-wind which ne'er does fail)
Shall drive thee round the world, and thou shalt run
As long around it as the sun.
The streights of Time too narrow are for thee;
Launch forth into an undiscover'd sea,
And steer the endless course of vast Eternity'
Take for thy sail this verse, and for thy pilot me !

UPON THE DEATH OF

THE EARL OF BARCARRES.

By living mortals of th’immortal dead,
And I'm afraid they laugh at the vain tears we shed.
'T is as if we, who stay behind
In expectation of the wind,
Should pity those who pass'd this streight before, }

"TIS folly all that can be said }

And touch the universal shore.
Ah, happy man! who art to sail no more

And, if it seem'd ridiculous to grieve Because our friends are newly come from sea, Though ne'er so fair and calm it be; What would all sober men believe, If they should hear us sighing say, “Balcarres, who but th'other day “Did all our love and our respect command; “At whose great parts we all amaz'd did stand; } “Is from a storm, alas! cast suddenly on land?"

If you will say—Few persons upon earth
Did, more than he, deserve to have
A life exempt from fortune and the grave;
Whether you look upon his birth
And ancestors, whose fame 's so widely spread—
But ancestors, alas! who long ago are dead—
Or whether you consider more
The vast increase, as sure you ought,
Of honour by his labour bought,
And added to the former store:
All I can answer, is, That I allow
The privilege you plead for; and avow }
That, as he well deserv'd, he doth enjoy it now.

Though God, for great and righteous ends,
Which his unerring Providence intends
Erroneous mankind should not understand,
Would not permit Balcarres' hand
(That once with so much industry and art
Had clos'd the gaping wounds of every part)

To perfect his distracted nation's cure, Or stop the fatal bondage 't was to endure; Yet for his pains he soon did him remove, From all th'oppression and the woe Of his frail body's native soil below, To his soul's true and peaceful country above: So Godlike kings, for secret causes, known Sometimes but to themselves alone, One of their ablest ministers elect, And send abroad to treaties which they' intend Shall never take effect; But, though the treaty wants a happy end, The happy agent wants not the reward, For which he labour'd faithfully and hard; His just and righteous master calls him home, And gives him, near himself, some honourable room.

Noble and great endeavours did he bring To save his country, and restore his king; And, whilst the manly half of him (which those Who know not Love, to be the whole suppose) Perform'd all parts of virtue's vigorous life; The beauteous half, his lovely wife, Did all his labours and his cares divide; Nor was a lame nor paralytic side: In all the turns of human state, And all th' unjust attacks of Fate, She bore her share and portion still, And would not suffer any to be ill. Unfortunate for ever let me be, If I believe that such was he,

Whom, in the storms of bad success, And all that Error calls unhappiness, His virtue and his virtuous wife did still accompany'

With these companions 't was not strange That nothing could his temper change. His own and country's union had not weight Enough to crush his mighty mind He saw around the hurricanes of state, Fixt as an island 'gainst the waves and wind. Thus far the greedy sea may reach; All outward things are but the beach; A great man's soul it doth assault in vain Their God himself the ocean doth restrain With an imperceptible chain, And bid it to go back again. His wisdom, justice, and his piety, His courage both to suffer and to die, His virtues, and his lady too, Were things celestial. And we see, In spite of quarrelling philosophy, How in this case 'tis certain found, That Heav'n stands still, and only earth goes round.

* ODE.
UPON DR. HARVEY.

COY Nature (which remain'd, though aged grown,
A beauteous virgin still, enjoy'd by none,
Nor seen unveil'd by any one),
When Harvey's violent passion she did see,
Began to tremble and to flee;
Took sanctuary, like Daphne, in a tree:
There Daphne's lover stopp'd, and thought it much
The very leaves of her to touch:
But Harvey, our Apollo, stopp'd not so;
Into the bark and root he after her did go
No smallest fibres of a plant,
For which the eye-beams' point doth sharpness want,
His passage after her withstood.
What should she do Through all the moving wood
Of lives endow’d with sense she took her flight;
Harvey pursues, and keeps her still in sight.
But, as the deer, long-hunted, takes a flood,
She leap'd at last into the winding streams of blood;
Of man's maeander all the purple reaches made,
Till at the heart she stay’d ;
Where turning head, and at a bay,
Thus by well-purged ears was she o'erheard to say:

“Here sure shall I be safe” (said she),
“None will be able sure to see

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