Poetical recreations consisting of original poems, songs, odes, &c. with several new translations : in two parts / part I, occasionally written by Mrs. Jane Barker, part II, by several gentlemen of the universities, and others.

To the Memory of the Illustrious 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. Fortunes most darling Favourites must die; Strait at th' 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 Herse the mourning Streamers flow, With all the rich Magnificence of Woe.

If Common Greatness these just Rights can claim, What Nobler Train must wait on Buckingham! When so much Wit, Wit's Great Re••ormer, dyes, The very Muses at thy Obsequies, (The Muses, that melodious cheersull Quire, Whom Misery could ne'er untune, nor tire, But chirp in Rags, and ev'n 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 Laurel into Cypress turn.

Nor shall the Nine sad Sisters only keep This mourning Day: even Time himself shall weep, And in new Brine his hoary furrows steep. Time, that so much must thy great Debtor be, As to have borrow'd ev'n new Life ••rom Thee; Whilst thy gay Wit has made his sullen Glass And tedious Hours with new-born Raptures pass.

What tho'black Envy with her ranc'rous Tongue, And angry Poets in embitter'd Song

(Whilst to new tracks thy boundless Soul aspires) Charge thee with roving Change, and wandring Fires•• Envy more base did never Virtue wrong; Thy Wit, a Torrent for the Banks too strong, In twenty smaller Rills o'er-flow'd the Dam, Though the main Channel still was Buckingham.

Let Care the busie Statesman over-whelm, Tugging at th' Oar, or drudging at the Helm. With lab'ring Pain so half-soul'd Pilots plod, Great Buckingham a sprightlier Measure trod: When o'er the mounting Waves the Vessel rod, 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, They Gallick Shore, 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 ev'n the Mighty Louis could not View With Wonder only, but with Envy too. His very Fleur-de-Lize's ••ainting Light Half droopt 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 the Earthly 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 Woer; The poorer Miser how dost thou out-shine, He the Worlds 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 spent, 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, Do's in one hallow'd Conflagration burn, A precious Incense to her Funeral Urn. So Thy bright Blaze felt the same Funeral Doom, A wealthier Pile than old Mausolus Tomb. Only too Great, too Proud to imitate The poorer Phoenix more Ignoble Fate, Thy Matchless Worth all Successors defies, And scorn'd an Heir shou'd from thy Ashes rise: Begins and finishes that Glorious Spheer, Too Mighty for a Second Charioteer.