With your kind work her drooping hopes revive;
You bid her read, repent, adore, and live.
You wrest the bolt from Heaven's avenging hand,
Stop ready death, and save a sinking land.

:

O! save us still; still bless us with thy stay: O! want thy Heaven till we have learn'd the way Refuse to leave thy destined charge too soon, And for the Church's good, defer thy own. O! live, and let thy works urge our belief; Live to explain thy doctrine by thy life; Till future infancy, baptized by thee, Grow ripe in years, and old in piety; Till Christians, yet unborn, be taught to die. Then in full age and hoary holiness Retire, great Teacher, to thy promised bliss ; Untouch'd thy tomb, uninjured be thy dust, As thy own fame among the future just, Till in last sounds the dreadful trumpet speaks; Till judgment calls, and quicken'd nature wakes; Till through the utmost earth and deepest sea Our scatter'd atoms find their destined way, In haste to clothe their kindred souls again, Perfect our state, and build immortal man: Then fearless thou, who well sustain'dst the fight, To paths of joy and tracts of endless light, Lead up all those who heard thee and believed; Midst thy own flock, great Shepherd, be received, And glad all Heaven with millions thou hast saved.

ΤΟ

. A PERSON

WHO WROTE ILL, AND SPAKE WORSE, AGAINST ME.

LIE, Philo, untouch'd on my peaceable shelf,
Nor take it amiss that so little I heed thee:
I've no envy to thee, and some love to myself;
Then why should I answer, since first I must
read thee?

Drunk with Helicon's waters and double brew'd
Be a linguist, a poet, a critic, a wag; [bub,
To the solid delight of thy well-judging club,

To the damage alone of thy bookseller Brag.

Pursue me with satire; what harm is there in't?
But from all viva voce reflection forbear;
There can be no danger from what thou shalt print;
There may be a little from what thou may'st

swear.

ON

THE SAME PERSON.

WHILE faster than his costive brain indites,
Philo's quick hand in flowing letters writes,
His case appears to me like honest Teague's,
When he was run away with by his legs.
Phoebus, give Philo o'er himself command;
Quicken his senses, or restrain his hand;
Let him be kept from paper, pen, and ink;
may he cease to write, and learn to think.

So

TO THE

LADY ELIZABETH HARLEY,

SINCE MARCHIONESS OF CARMARTHEN,

ON A COLUMN OF HER DRAWING.

WHEN future ages shall with wonder view
These glorious lines, which Harley's daughter drew,
They shall confess that Britain could not raise
A fairer Column to the father's praise.

TO THE RIGHT HON. THE

COUNTESS DOWAGER OF DEVONSHIRE, ON A PIECE OF WIESSEN'S1,

WHEREON WERE ALL HER GRANDSONS PAINTED.

WIESSEN and Nature held a long contest
If she created, or he painted best;

With pleasing thought the wondrous combat grew,
She still form'd fairer, he still liker drew.
In these seven brethren they contended last;

With art increased their utmost skill they tried, And, both well-pleased they had themselves surpass'd,

The goddess triumph'd, and the painter died.

1 Lord Oxford, who calls this painter Wissing, says he was born at Amsterdam, and became a formidable rival to Sir Godfrey Kneller in England, but died at the early age of thirty-one, in 1687. Prior wrote these lines on his last per

formance.

That both their skill to this vast height did raise,
Be our's the wonder, and be your's the praise:
For here, as in some glass, is well descried
Only yourself thus often multiplied.

When Heaven had you and gracious Anna' made,
What more exalted beauty could it add?
Having no nobler images in store,

It but kept up to these, nor could do more
Than copy well what it had framed before.
If in dear Burghley's generous face we see
Obliging truth, and handsome honesty,

With all that world of charms which soon will move
Reverence in men, and in the fair ones love;
His every grace his fair descent assures,
He has his mother's beauty, she has your's.
If every Cecil's face had every charm

That thought can fancy, or that Heaven can form,
Their beauties all become your beauty's due;
They are all fair, because they're all like you.
If every Cavendish great and charming look,
From you that air, from you the charms they took.
In their each limb your image is express'd,
But on their brow firm courage stands confess'd;
There their great father, by a strong increase,
Adds strength to beauty, and completes the piece.
Thus still your beauty in your sons we view,
Wiessen seven times one great perfection drew;
Whoever sat, the picture still is you.

So when the parent sun, with genial beams,
Has animated many goodly gems,

He sees himself improved, while every stone,
With a resembling light, reflects a sun.

2 Eldest daughter of the Countess.

So when great Rhea many births had given, Such as might govern earth, and people heaven, Her glory grew diffused; and, fuller known, She saw the deity in every son:

And to what god soe'er men altars raised,
Honouring the offspring, they the mother praised.
In short-lived charms let others place their joys,
Which sickness blasts, and certain age destroys;
Your stronger beauty time can ne'er deface,
'Tis still renew'd, and stamp'd in all your race.

Ah! Wiessen, had thy art been so refined,
As with their beauty to have drawn their mind,
Through circling years thy labours would survive,
And living rules to fairest virtue give,
To men unborn and ages yet to live:

"Twould still be wonderful, and still be new, Against what time, or spite, or fate, could do, Till thine, confused with Nature's pieces lie, And Cavendish's name, and Cecil's honour die.

ΤΟ

A YOUNG LADY,

WHO WAS FOND OF FORTUNE-TELLING.

You, madam, may with safety go,

Decrees of destiny to know;

For at your birth kind planets reign'd,
And certain happiness ordain'd;
Such charms as your's are only given
To chosen favourites of Heaven.