[_On the Death of the Earl of Ossory._] Thomas Butler (1634-80), by courtesy Earl of Ossory, though not exactly a Marcellus (for he was forty-six when he died), holds a distinguished place among those who have died too soon. He was a soldier, a sailor, a statesman; if not an orator, an effective speaker; and though no milksop or 'good boy', one emphatically, 'of the right sort'. The excellent first line (see Introduction) is well supported by the whole opening quatrain; and it has been left, typographically, as it appears in the original. The rest may undergo the usual law. The poem was first issued in folio in 1681: 'be' was read for 'grow' in l. 63.] [Line: 58 The French rhyme, as if 'dés_ir_', is not uninteresting.] _To the Memory of the Incomparable Orinda._ PINDARIC ODE. _Stanza_ I. A long adieu to all that's bright, Noble, or brave in woman-kind; To all the wonders of their wit, And trophies of their mind: The glowing heat of th' holy fire is gone: To th' altar, whence 'twas kindled, flown; There's nought on earth, but ashes left behind; E'er since th' amazing sound was spread, Orinda's dead; Every soft and fragrant word, 10 All that language could afford; Every high and lofty thing That's wont to set the soul on wing, No longer with this worthless world would stay. Thus, when the death of the great Pan was told, Along the shore the dismal tidings roll'd; The lesser Gods their fanes forsook, Confounded with the mighty stroke, They could not overlive that fatal day, But sigh'd and groan'd their gasping Oracles away. 20 II. How rigid are the laws of Fate And how severe that black decree! No sublunary thing is free, But all must enter th' adamantine gate: Sooner or later must we come To Nature's dark retiring room: And yet 'tis pity, is it not? The learned, as the fool should die, One, full as low, as t'other lie, Together blended in the general lot! 30 Distinguish'd only from the common crowd By an hing'd coffin or an holland shroud, Though Fame and Honour speak them ne'er so loud. Alas, Orinda! even thou, Whose happy verse made others live, And certain immortality could give; Blasted are all thy blooming glories now, The laurel withers o'er thy brow: Methinks it should disturb thee to conceive That when poor I this artless breath resign, 40 My dust should have as much of Poetry as thine! III.