| OCR Text |
Show Alas OR I N D A , even thou / Whofe happy Verfe made, others live, And certain Immortality could give ', Blafted aro all thy blooming glories now: The Laurel withers o'er thy brow : Methinks it fbould difturbe thee to conceive That when poor I this artlefs breath refign, My Dnft fly uld have as much of Poetry as Thine. 3' Too foon we languifty with define Of what we never could enough admire j On tti Billows of this world fometimes we rife So dangeronfly high, We are to Heaven too nigh \ When (all in YC<*je Grown hoary with one minutes age,) The very felf fame fickle wave, Which the entrancing ProfpeSl gave, SwoWn to a Mountain, finks into a grave. Too happy Mortals if the Powrs above As merciful would be, f And eofte to preferve the thing we love, , # A s in the giving they are free I But they too oft delude our weary d Eyes, They fix a flaming Sword 'twixt us and Paradife \ A weeping Evening crowns a fmiling Day, Tet why fbould Heads of Gold, have Feet of Clay P Whyfhejildihe Man that wavd tti Almighty Wand, That led the Murmuring Croud, By Pillar and by Cloud, Shivering a top of aery ViCgzh fiand, Only to fee, but never, never tread the Promised Land? 4. Throw your Swords, and Gauntlets by Ton daring Sons of War, Tfou cannot purchafe eeryon dy One honourable fear, oince Since that fair hand thdt gilded all your Bays, That in heroicbfNumbers wrot your praifie, While you fecurely flept in Honor's Bed, It felf, alas I is withered, cold, and Deadj Coid and Dead are all thofe Charms, Whichburnifb'dyour Victorious Arms : Inglorious Arms hereafter mnft Blufh fir ft in blood, and then in ruft : No Oil, but that of Her fmooth words willferve Weapon, and Warrior to preferve. Expe& no more from this dull Age, But folly, or Poetique Rage, Short-livd Nothings of the Stage, ^Vented to Day, and cryd to morrow downf With HER the foul of Poefie is gone ? Gone, while our expectations flew As high a pitch as She has done, Exhald to Heaven like early dew, Betimes the little fbining drops are flown, Eer tti drowzy Worldperceivd that Manna was come down Ton of the Sex that would be fair, Exceeding lovely, hither come Would yon be pure as Angels are, Come drefs yon by ORINDA's Tomb, And leave your flattering Glafs at home $ Within this Marble Mirrour fee How one day fuch as She Ton muft, and yet alas 1 can never be. Thinkon the heights of that vaft Soul, And then admire, and then condole. Thinkon the wonders of Her Pen, 'Twos that made Pompey truety Great, Neither tti expence of blood nor fweai Nor yet CorneliaV Kindnefs made him live agen. With envy think, when to the Grave you gee ? How very little muft be faid of you+ Since all that can be Jaidof virtuous Woman was her due, Thomas Flatman M . A« Q |
