Poems on several occasions by the Duke of Buckingham, The late Lord Rochester, Sir John Denham, Sir George Etheridge, Andrew Marvel, Esq., the famous Spencer, Madam Behn, and several other poets of this age.

To the Memory of the most Illu∣strious Prince GEORGE, Duke of Buckingham.

WHEN the Dread Summons of commanding Fate Sounds the last Call at some proud Palace Gate; When both the Rich, the Fair, the Great, and High, Fortune's most darling Favourites must die; Straight at the Alarm the busie Heraulds wait, To fill the solemn Pomp, and mourn in State. Scutcheons and Sables then make up the show, Whilst on the Hearse the mourning Streamers flow, With all the Rich Magnificence of Woe. If Common Greatness these just Rites can claim, What nobler Train must wait on Buckingham!

When so much wit, Wit's great Reformer dies; The very Muses at thy Obsequies, (The Muses, that Melodious cheerful Quire, Whom Misery cou'd ne'er untune, nor tire; But chirp in Rags, and even in Dungeons sing,) Now with their broken Notes, and flagging wing, To thy sad Dirge their murm'ring Plaints shall bring. Wit, and Wit's God, for Buckingham shall mourn, And his lov'd Lawrel into Cypress turn.

Nor shall the nine sad Sisters only keep This mourning day; even Time himself shallweep, And in new Brine his. Hoary Furrows steep. Time, that so much must thy great Debter be, As to have borrow'd even new Life from thee; Whilst thy gay Wit has made his sullen Glass, And tedious Hours with new-born Rapturespass.

What tho'black Envy with her Ranc'rous Tongue, And Angry Poets in imbitter'd Song, (Whilst to new Tracks, thy boundless Soul aspires,) Charge thee with roving Change, and wand'ring Fires. 'Twas byass'd Anger did thy Vertue wrong, Thy Wit a Torrent for the Banks too strong; In twenty smaller Rills o'er-flow'd the Dam, Tho' the main Channel still was Buckingham.

Let Care the busie States-man overwhelm, Tugging at th'Oar, or Drudging at the Helm; With labouring Pain so half-soul'd Pilots plod; Great Buckingham a sprightlier Measure trod, When o'er the mounting waves the Vessel rode: Unshock'd by Toyls, by Tempests undismay'd, Steer'd the great Bark, and as that danc'd he play'd.

Nor Bounds thy Praise to Albion's narrow Coast, Thy Gallantry shall foreign Nations boast: The Gallick Shoar, with all the Trumps of Fame, To endless Ages shall resound thy Name, When Buckingham, Great CHARLES Embassador, With such a Port the Royal Image bore; So near the Life th'Imperial Copy drew, As even the Mighty Louis cou'd not view With wonder only, but with Envy too: His very Fleur de Lys es fainting Light, Half Droop'd to see the English Rose so bright.

Let Groveling Minds of Nature's basest Mould, Hug and adore their dearest Idol Gold. Thy nobler Soul did the weak Charms defie, Disdain'd the Earthy Dross to mount more high. Whilst humbler Merit on Court Smiles depends, For the gilt show'r, in which their Iove descends;

Thou mount'st to Honour for a braver end; What others borrow, thou cam'st there to lend. Did'st sacred Vertues naked self adore, And left'st her Portion for her sordid Wooer. The poorer Miser, how dost thou outshine, He the World's Slave, but thou hast made it thine. Great Buckingham's Exalted Character, That in the Prince liv'd the Philosopher. Thus all the Wealth thy generous Hand has spen••, Shall raise thy Everlasting Monument: So the fam'd Phoenix builds her dying Nest, Of all the richest Spices of the East: Then the heap'd Mass, prepar'd for a kind Ray, Some warmer Beam of the great God of day, Does in one hallow'd Conflagration burn, A precious Incense to her Funeral Urn. So thy bright Blaze felt the same Funeral Doo••. A Wealthier Pile than old M••usolas Tomb.

Onely too great, too proud to imitate, The poorer Phoenix more ignoble Fate: Thy Matchless Worth all Successors defies, And scorn'd an Heir should from thy Ashes rise; Begins, and finishes that Glorious Sphear, Too mighty for a second Charioteer.