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Yet with becoming grief he bore his part,
Resigned his son, but not resigned his heart.
Patient as Job; and may he live to see,
Like him, a new increasing family!


Such is my wish, and such my prophecy; For yet, my friend, the beauteous mould remains; Long may she exercise her fruitful pains! But, ah! with better hap, and bring a race More lasting, and endued with equal grace! Equal she may, but farther none can go; For he was all that was exact below.


Damon, behold yon breaking purple cloud; Hear'st thou not hymns and songs divinely loud? There mounts Amyntas; the young cherubs play About their godlike mate, and sing him on his way. He cleaves the liquid air; behold, he flies, And every moment gains upon the skies. The new-come guest admires the ethereal state, The sapphire portal, and the golden gate; And now admitted in the shining throng, He shows the passport which he brought along. His passport is his innocence and grace, Well known to all the natives of the place. Now sing, ye joyful angels, and admire Your brother's voice that comes to mend your quire: Sing you, while endless tears our eyes bestow; For, like Amyntas, none is left below.





HE, who could view the book of destiny,
And read whatever there was writ of thee,
O charming youth, in the first opening page,
So many graces in so green an age,
Such wit, such modesty, such strength of mind,
A soul at once so manly and so kind,

Would wonder when he turned the volume o'er,
And, after some few leaves, should find no more,
Nought but a blank remain, a dead void space,
A step of life that promised such a race.
We must not, dare not, think, that heaven began
A child, and could not finish him a man ;
Reflecting what a mighty store was laid
Of rich materials, and a model made:
The cost already furnished; so bestowed,
As more was never to one soul allowed:
Yet after this profusion spent in vain,
Nothing but mouldering ashes to remain,
I guess not, lest I split upon the shelf,
Yet, durst I guess, heaven kept it for himself;

And giving us the use, did soon recal,
Ere we could spare the mighty principal.

Thus then he disappeared, was rarefied,
For 'tis improper speech to say he died:
He was exhaled; his great Creator drew
His spirit, as the sun the morning dew.
'Tis sin produces death; and he had none,
But the taint Adam left on every son.
He added not, he was so pure, so good,
'Twas but the original forfeit of his blood;
And that so little, that the river ran
More clear than the corrupted fount began.

othing remained of the first muddy clay;
The length of course had washed it in the way:
So deep, and yet so clear, we might behold
The gravel bottom, and that bottom gold.

As such we loved, admired, almost adored,
Gave all the tribute mortals could afford.
Perhaps we gave so much, the powers above
Grew angry at our superstitious love;
For when we more than human homage pay,
The charming cause is justly snatched away.

Thus was the crime not his, but ours alone; And yet we murmur that he went so soon, Though miracles are short, and rarely shown.

Learn then, ye mournful parents, and divide That love in many, which in one was tied. That individual blessing is no more, But multiplied in your remaining store. The flame's dispersed, but does not all expire; The sparkles blaze, though not the globe of fire. Love him by parts, in all your numerous race, And from those parts form one collected grace; Then, when you have refined to that degree, Imagine all in one, and think that one is he.




The family of Rogers seems to have been of considerable antiquity

in Gloucestershire. They possessed the estate of Dowdeswell during the greater part of the 16th and 17th centuries. Many of their monuments are in the church of Dowdeswell, of which they were patrons. See ATKYN's Gloucestershire. The subject of this epitaph was probably of this family.


F gentle blood, his parents only treasure, Their lasting sorrow, and their vanished pleasure, Adorned with features, virtues, wit, and grace, A large provision for so short a race:

More moderate gifts might have prolonged his date,
Too early fitted for a better state :

But, knowing heaven his home, to shun delay,
He leaped o'er age, and took the shortest way.




HENRY PURCELL, as a musician, is said by Burney to have been as much the pride of an Englishman, as Shakespeare in the drama, Milton in epic poetry, or Locke and Newton in their several departments of philosophy. He was born in 1658, and died in 1695, at the premature age of 37 years. Dryden, to whose productions he had frequently added the charms of music, devoted a tribute to his memory in the following verses, which, with others by inferior bards, were prefixed to a collection of Purcell's music, published two years after his death, under the title of ORPHEUS BRITANNICUS. The Ode was set to music by Dr Blow, and performed at the concert in York Buildings. Dr Burney says, that the music is composed in fugue and imitation; but appears la boured, and is wholly without invention or pathos.

The " Orpheus Britannicus" being inscribed by the widow of Purcell to the Hon. Lady Howard, both Sir John Hawkins and Dr Burney have been led into the mistake of supposing, that the person so named was no other than Lady Elizabeth Dryden, our author's wife. Mr Malone has detected this error; and indeed the high compliments paid by the dedicator to Mr Purcell's patroness, as an exquisite musician, a person of extensive influence, and one whose munificence had covered the remains of Purcell with 66 a fair monument," are irreconcileable with the character, situation, and pecuniary circumstances of Lady Elizabeth Dryden. The Lady Howard of the dedication must, unquestionably, have been the wife of the Honourable Sir Robert Howard; whence it follows, that the "honourable gentleman, who had the dearest, and most deserved relation to her, and whose excellent compositions were the subject of Purcell's last and best performances in music," was not our author, as has been erroneously supposed, but his brotherin-law, the said Sir Robert Howard, who continued to the last to



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