Maintain your post: that's all the fame you need; For 'tis impossible you should proceed. Already I am worn with cares and age, And just abandoning the ungrateful stage: Unprofitably kept at Heaven's expense, I live a rent-charge on His providence: But you, whom every Muse and grace adorn, Whom I foresee to better fortune born, Be kind to my remains; and oh, defend, Against your judgment, your departed friend! Let not the insulting foe my fame pursue, But shade those laurels which descend to you: And take for tribute what these lines express; You merit more, nor could my love do less. ODE TO THE PIOUS MEMORY OF THE ACCOMPLISHED YOUNG LADY MRS. ANNE KILLIGREW, EXCELLENT IN THE TWO SISTER ARTS OF POESY AND PAINTING. Thou youngest virgin daughter of the skies, Made in the last promotion of the blest; Whose palms, new-plucked from Paradise, In spreading branches more sublimely rise, Rich with immortal green above the rest: Whether, adopted to some neighboring star, Thou roll'st above us in thy wandering race, Or in procession fixed and regular Moved with the heaven's majestic pace, Or called to more superior bliss, Thou tread'st with seraphims the vast abyss: Whatever happy region be thy place, Cease thy celestial song a little space; Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine, Since Heaven's eternal year is thine. Hear then a mortal Muse thy praise rehearse In no ignoble verse, But such as thy own voice did practice here, When thy first fruits of poesy were given, To make thyself a welcome inmate there; While yet a young probationer, And candidate of Heaven. If by traduction came thy mind, Our wonder is the less to find A soul so charming from a stock so good; Thy father was transfused into thy blood: So wert thou born into the tuneful strain (An early, rich, and inexhausted vein). But if thy pre-existing soul Was formed at first with myriads more, It did through all the mighty poets roll Who Greek or Latin laurels wore, And was that Sappho last, which once it was before. If so, then cease thy flight, O heaven-born mind! Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore: Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find Than was the beauteous frame she left behind: Return, to fill or mend the quire of thy celestial kind.