MULGRAVE.

G

FOR MUSIC.

Performed at the funeral of Henry Purcell, the musician, in the end of November, 1695.

OOD angels snatched him eagerly on high,

Joyful they flew, singing and soaring, through the

sky,

Teaching his new-fledged soul to fly;

While we, alas ! lamenting lie.

He went musing all along,

Composing new their heavenly song:

Awhile his skilful notes loud hallelujahs drowned,

But soon they ceased their own, to catch his pleasing sound. David himself improved the harmony,

David, in sacred story so renowned

No less for music than for poetry!

Genius sublime in either art,

Crowned with applause surpassing all desert!

A man just after God's own heart!

If human cares are lawful to the blest

Already settled in eternal rest,

Needs must he wish that Purcell only might

Have lived to set what he vouchsafed to write ;

For sure the noble thirst of fame

With the frail body never dies,

But with the soul ascends the skies
From whence at first it came..
'Tis sure no little proof we have
That part of us survives the grave,

And in our fame below still bears a share :

Why is the future else so much our care,

Even in our latest moment of despair,

And Death despised for Fame by all the wise and brave?
O all ye blest harmonious choir,

Who Power Almighty only love, and only that admire !
Look down with pity from your peaceful bower
On this sad isle perplexed,

And ever, ever vexed

With anxious care of trifles, wealth and power;

In our rough minds due reverence infuse

For sweet melodious sounds, and each harmonious muse. Music exalts man's nature, and inspires

High elevated thoughts, or gentle, kind desires.

ON NOTHING.

ROCHESTER.

N

First printed at Antwerp, in 1680, immediately after the author's death.

OTHING, thou elder brother even to shade,

Thou had'st a being e'er the world was made, And, well-fixed, art alone of ending not afraid.

E'er Time and Place were, Time and Place were not, When primitive Nothing Something straight begot, Then all proceeded from the great united What?

Something, the general attribute of all,
Severed from thee, its sole original,

Into thy boundless self must undistinguished fall.

Yet Something did thy mighty power command,
And from thy fruitful emptiness's hand

Snatcht men, beasts, birds, fire, water, air and land.

Matter, the wickedest offspring of thy race,
By Form assisted, flew from thy embrace,
And rebel Light obscured thy reverend dusky face.

With Form and Matter, Time and Place did join ;
Body, thy foe, did with these leagues combine
To spoil thy peaceful reign, and ruin all thy line.

But turn-coat Time assists thy foes in vain, And, bribed by thee, destroys their short-lived reign, And to thy hungry womb drives back thy slaves again.

These mysteries are barred from laic eyes, And the divine alone with warrant pries Into thy bosom where the truth in private lies.

Yet this of thee the wise may freely say, Thou from the virtuous nothing tak'st away, And to be part of thee the wicked wisely pray.

Great negative, how vainly would the wise Enquire, define, distinguish, teach, devise, Did'st thou not stand to point their dull philosophies !

Is, or Is not, the two great ends of Fate, And True or False the subject of debate, That perfect or destroy the vast designs of fate,

When they have racked the politician's breast,
Within thy bosom most securely rest,

And when reduced to thee, are least unsafe, and best.

But, Nothing, why does Something still permit
That sacred monarchs should at table sit

With persons shrewdly thought, at best, for Nothing fit?

Whilst weighty Something modestly abstains From princes' coffers and from statesmen's brains, And nothing there, like stately Nothing, reigns.

Nothing, who dwell'st with fools in grave disguise, For whom they reverend shapes and forms devise, Lawn sleeves, and furs, and gowns, when they, like thee, look wise.

French truth, Dutch prowess, English policy,
Hibernian learning, Scotch civility,

Spaniards' dispatch, Danes' wit, are mainly seen in thee.

The great man's gratitude to his best friend, Kings' pledges, lovers' vows, all to thee tend, Flow swiftly into thee, and in thee ever end.