A poem occasioned on the death of Mr. Henry Purcell, late musician in ordinary to His Majesty by a lover of music.

A POEM On the Death of Mr. Henry Purcell, &c.

I.

YE Gentle Sphears Cease now your wonted melody, Rest and ever silent be— Nought now remains for Comfort or Relief, But a free vent to our just source of grief. An untaught Groan best language is, For such a dismal Scene as This. Yet like the dying Swans you first may tell, In softest Musick to attending Ears, How the Lov'd Strephon liv'd, and how lamented fell: Tell then th' admiring World how often He, Has ev'n charm'd you to exstasie, How oft you've envy'd at the praise he won, Yet smil'd to see your selves out done. Tell this in diff'rent Notes, in such as he, Was us'd to charm us hear below, that make one Harmony.

II.

The little Birds throughout the Plains, Repeat their Notes in doleful Strain. In doleful strains they all complain As if they never were to Sing again. Sad P••••••omel amongst ••he rest As if some Story ••he relate, Not of her own, but of her Masters cruel Fate, In mornful Notes her grief exprest, In careless melancholy Lays She ••••ng his Praise. Now all her Art she trys, Now all her Strength applys, To warble forth an Elegy Sacred to his Memory. She Sings, alas her Songs are all in vain, Nothing can alter Destiny, The Swain can ne're return to life again.

III.

What do I hear, what dismal Groans, What Sights, what Shreiks, what melancholy Moans, Now spread themselves o're all the Pensive Plains, And tears the breasts of all the tender Swains, 'Tis for Strephon Dead and gone. Mourn all ye Shepherds, mourn with me your Masters Fall, With me attend his Funeral, With me adorn his Herse With never fadeing Garland, never dying Verse. Alas! no Sounds will now prevail, To tell their melancholy Tale,

Since dead is He who made their Songs to live, He their dull numbers could inspire, With charming Voice, and tuneful Lyre, He life to all, but to himself could give. No longer now the Swains unto each other play, Their Arms a cross, their Heads hung down, Their Oaten Pipes, besides them thrown, Their Flocks neglected stray, Ev'n Pan himself o'rewhelm'd with grief, has thrown his Pipe away.

IV.

See Love himself all bath'd in Tears, His Bow he brakes, away his Darts he flings, Then folds his Arms, and hangs his drooping Wings, Venus her self close mourner here appears. No longer now she thinks her self secure, But sighing from her Throne looks down, Her greatness cannot long endure Since it's supporter's dead and gone; Since that the tuneful Strephon's Fall'n— Now silent lyes his Lyre, No longer warms our hearts into desire, For dead is he who could our Passions move, Who best could gentle thoughts inspire, Who best could fan the amorous fire, Make us at once submit, and own the Pow'r of Love.

V.

Gone is the glory of our Age, The Pride and Darling of the Stage. The Theatre his worth well knew, Saw how by him it's greatness grew.

In him their honour Pride and Glory liv'd, Far as his Soul they now are fled, And scarce can sooner be retriev'd, For all their hopes in him are dead. Whil'st he vouchsaf'd to stay below They were too blest long to continue so. But oh! no more the tuneful Strephon's Songs they'l hear, No more his joyful Notes will glad the wondring Theatre.

VI.

Ye Sons of Phebus write his Elegy But let it be Great as the Subject, sad as your Calamity, Let every Muse his Praise aloud proclaim And to the distant Poles, let Echo spread his Fame. Write Epitaphs that so The world may know, How much to him ev'n Poetry did owe, For you but say, 'tis he that makes you sing, His Art the Embrio words does to perfection bring. By us the Muse at first conceives, 'tis true, He makes it fit to see the light, that gift to him we owe: Nake'd at first and rugged they appear, But when by him adorn'd they be, Assume a Pomp and Bravery, Nor need they longer blush to reach a Prnces Ear.

VII.

How rigid are the Laws of Fate, And how severe the black Decree, For nothing, nothing here is free, But all must enter th' Adamantine Gate. The Great, the Good, the Just, nay all, must come, To Natures dark retireing Room. He! he! alas is gone, Whose gentle Airs did make our Numbers live, Who Immortality could give, His Soul to't's first aboade away is flown, Blasted are all our Glories now, Our Lawrels wither as they grow, The Muse her self forsakes us too. Come then, come quickly come, Let's pay our tears for off'rings at his Tomb. Let us not strive, who best deserves the Bays, He that grieves most, best claims the Highest Praise.

VIII.

Arise ye blest Inhabitants above, From your immortal Seats arise, And on our Wonder, on our Love, Gaze with astonish'd eyes; Arise, Arise, make room, The wish'd for shade is come; Hast and your selves prepare To me the joyful Chorister, Meet him half way with Songs, such as you sing, Before the throne of the Eternal King, With welcomes let th' Aetherial Palace ring, Welcome the Gardian Angel says, Full of Songs, and full of Bays, Welcome thou art to me, And to these Regions of Serenity; Welcome the winged Choire resounds, While with loud Euges all the sacred place abounds. Low now above he chants Eternal Lays Above our wonder, and our Praise.

FINIS.