Thus fell the young, the lovely, and the brave;- 35
Strew bays and flowers on his honoured grave!

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EPITAPH ON THE LADY SEDLEY.1

HERE lies the learned Savil's heir,
So early wise, and lasting fair,

That none, except her years they told,
Thought her a child, or thought her old.
All that her father knew or got,
His art, his wealth, fell to her lot;
And she so well improved that stock,
Both of his knowledge and his flock,
That wit and fortune, reconciled
In her, upon each other smiled.
While she to every well-taught mind
Was so propitiously inclined,
And gave such title to her store,
That none, but th' ignorant, were poor.
The Muses daily found supplies,

Both from her hands and from her eyes.

Her bounty did at once engage,

And matchless beauty warm their rage.
Such was this dame in calmer days,
Her nation's ornament and praise!
But when a storm disturb'd our rest,
The port and refuge of the oppress'd.
This made her fortune understood,
And look'd on as some public good.
So that (her person and her state,
Exempted from the common fate)

Lady Sedley' daughter of Sir Henry Savil, provost of Eton, and who married Sir John Sedley.

M

In all our civil fury she
Stood, like a sacred temple, free.
May here her monument stand so,
To credit this rude age! and show
To future times, that even we
Some patterns did of virtue see;
And one sublime example had
Of good, among so many bad.

EPITAPH,

TO BE WRITTEN UNDER THE LATIN INSCRIPTION UPON THE TOMB OF THE ONLY SON OF THE LORD ANDOVER.1

"TIS fit the English reader should be told,

In our own language, what this tomb does hold.
"Tis not a noble corpse alone does lie
Under this stone, but a whole family.

His parents' pious care, their name, their joy,
And all their hope, lies buried with this boy;
This lovely youth! for whom we all made moan,
That knew his worth, as he had been our own.

Had there been space and years enough allow'd,
His courage, wit, and breeding to have show'd,
We had not found, in all the num'rous roll
Of his famed ancestors, a greater soul;
His early virtues to that ancient stock
Gave as much honour, as from thence he took.
Like buds appearing ere the frosts are past,
To become man he made such fatal haste,
And to perfection labour'd so to climb,
Preventing slow experience and time,

Lord Andover': the eldest son of the Earl of Berkshire.

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That 'tis no wonder Death our hopes beguiled; 19 He's seldom old that will not be a child.

EPITAPH UNFINISHED.

GREAT soul! for whom Death will no longer stay,
But sends in haste to snatch our bliss away.
O cruel Death! to those you take more kind,
Than to the wretched mortals left behind!
Here beauty, youth, and noble virtue shined,
Free from the clouds of pride that shade the mind.
Inspired verse may on this marble live,
But can no honour to thy ashes give-

DIVINE POEMS.1

OF DIVINE LOVE.

A POEM IN SIX CANTOS.

Floriferis ut apes in saltibus omnia libant,
Sic nos Scripturæ depascimur aurea dicta;
Aurea! perpetua semper dignissima vita!
Nam divinus amor cum cœpit vociferari,
Diffugiunt animi terrores.

Lucretius, lib. iii.

Exul eram, requiesque mihi, non fama, petita est,
Mens intenta suis ne foret usque malis:

Namque ubi mota calent sacra mea pectora Musa,
Altior humano spiritus ille malo est.

OVID. De Trist. lib. iv. el. I.

'These were Waller's latest poems, composed when he was eighty-two.

ARGUMENTS.

I. Asserting the authority of the Scripture, in which this love is revealed.— II. The preference and love of God to man in the creation.-III. The same love more amply declared in our redemption.—IV. How necessary this love is to reform mankind, and how excellent in itself.-V. Showing how happy the world would be, if this love were universally embraced.— VI. Of preserving this love in our memory, and how useful the contemplation thereof is.

CANTO I.

THE Grecian Muse has all their gods survived,
Nor Jove at us, nor Phœbus is arrived;
Frail deities! which first the poets made,
And then invoked, to give their fancies aid.
Yet if they still divert us with their rage,
What may be hoped for in a better age,
When not from Helicon's imagined spring,
But Sacred Writ, we borrow what we sing?
This with the fabric of the world begun,
Elder than light, and shall outlast the sun.
Before this oracle, like Dagon, all
The false pretenders, Delphos, Ammon, fall;
Long since despised and silent, they afford
Honour and triumph to th' Eternal Word.

As late philosophy1 our globe has graced,
And rolling earth among the planets placed,
So has this book entitled us to heaven,
And rules to guide us to that mansion given;
Tells the conditions how our peace was made,
And is our pledge for the great Author's aid.
His power in Nature's ample book we find,
But the less volume does express his mind.

This light unknown, bold Epicurus taught That his bless'd gods vouchsafe us not a thought, 16 Late philosophy': that of Copernicus.

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But unconcern'd let all below them slide,
As fortune does, or human wisdom, guide.
Religion thus removed, the sacred yoke,
And band of all society, is broke.
What use of oaths, of promise, or of test,
Where men regard no God but interest?
What endless war would jealous nations tear,
If none above did witness what they swear?
Sad fate of unbelievers, and yet just,
Among themselves to find so little trust!
Were Scripture silent, Nature would proclaim,
Without a God, our falsehood and our shame.
To know our thoughts the object of his eyes,
Is the first step t'wards being good or wise;
For though with judgment we on things reflect,
Our will determines, not our intellect.
Slaves to their passion, reason men employ
Only to compass what they would enjoy.
His fear to guard us from ourselves we need,
And Sacred Writ our reason does exceed;
For though heaven shows the glory of the Lord,
Yet something shines more glorious in His Word;
His mercy this (which all His work excels!)
His tender kindness and compassion tells;
While we, inform'd by that celestial Book,
Into the bowels of our Maker look.
Love there reveal'd (which never shall have end,
Nor had beginning) shall our song commend;
Describe itself, and warm us with that flame
Which first from heaven, to make us happy, came.

CANTO II.

THE fear of hell, or aiming to be bless'd,
Savours too much of private interest.

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