How, to thy Sacred Memory, shall I bring (Worthy thy Fame) a grateful Offering? I, who by Toils of Sickness, am become Almost as near as thou art to a Tomb? While every soft, and every tender Strain Is ruffl’d, and ill-natur’d grown with Pain. But, at thy Name, my languisht _Muse_ revives, And a new _Spark_ in the dull _Ashes_ strives. I hear thy tuneful _Verse_, thy _Song_ Divine, And am Inspir’d by every charming Line. But, Oh!---- What Inspiration, at the second Hand, Can an _Immortal Elegie_ command? Unless, like _Pious Offerings_, mine should be Made Sacred, being Consecrate to thee. Eternal, as thy own Almighty Verse, Should be those _Trophies_ that adorn thy _Hearse_. The _Thought_ Illustrious, and the _Fancy_ young; } The _Wit_ Sublime, the _Judgment_ Fine and Strong; } Soft, as thy _Notes_ to _Sacharissa_ sung. } Whilst mine, like Transitory _Flowers_, decay, That come to _deck_ thy Tomb a short-liv’d Day. Such _Tributes_ are, like _Tenures_, only fit To shew from whom we hold our _Right_ to _Wit_. Hail, wondrous _Bard_, whose Heav’n-born _Genius_ first My Infant _Muse_, and Blooming _Fancy_ Nurst. With thy soft _Food_ of _Love_ I first began, Then fed on nobler _Panegyrick_ Strain, Numbers _Seraphic_! and at every View, My Soul extended, and much larger grew: Where e’re I Read, new Raptures seiz’d my Blood; Me thought I heard the Language of a God. Long did the untun’d World in Ign’rance stray, } Producing nothing that was Great and Gay, } Till taught by thee, the true Poetick way. } Rough were the _Tracts_ before, Dull and Obscure; Nor Pleasure, nor Instruction could procure. Their thoughtless Labour could no _Passion_ move; Sure, in that _Age_, the Poets knew not _Love_: That Charming _God_, like Apparitions, then, Was only talk’d on, but ne’re seen by Men: Darkness was o’re the _Muses_ Land displaid, And even the _Chosen Tribe_ unguided straid. ‘Till, by thee rescu’d from th’ _Egyptian_ Night, } They now look up, and view the God of Light, } That taught them how to _Love_, and how to _Write_; } And to Enhance the Blessing which Heav’n lent, When for our great _Instructor_ thou wert sent, Large was thy Life, but yet thy Glories more; } And, like the _Sun_, didst still dispense thy Pow’r, } Producing something wondrous ev’ry hour: } And in thy _Circulary Course_, didst see The very _Life_ and _Death_ of _Poetry_. Thou saw’st the _Generous Nine_ neglected lie, None listning to their Heav’nly _Harmony_; The World being grown to that low _Ebb_ of Sense