When the sad news was spread, The bright, the fair _Orinda’s_ dead, We sigh’d, we mourn’d, we wept, we griev’d, And fondly with our selves conceiv’d, A loss so great could never be retriev’d. The Ruddy Warriour laid his Truncheon by, Sheath’d his bright sword, and glorious Arms forgot, The sounds of Triumph, braggs of Victory, Rais’d in his Breast no emulative thought; For pond’ring on the common Lot, Where is, said He the Diff’rence in the Grave, Betwixt the Coward and the Brave? Since She, alas, whose inspir’d Muse should tell To unborn Ages how the Hero fell, From the Impoverisht Ignorant World is fled, T’inhance the mighty mighty Number of the dead. II. The trembling Lover broke his tuneless Lute, And said be thou for ever mute: Mute as the silent shades of night, Whither _Orinda’s_ gone, Thy musicks best instructress and thy musicks song; She that could make Thy inarticulated strings to speak, In language soft as young desires, In language chaste as _Vestal_ fires; But she hath ta’n her Everlasting flight: Ah! cruel Death, How short’s the date of Learned breath! No sooner do’s the blooming Rose, Drest fresh and gay, In the embroy’dries of her Native May, Her odorous sweets expose, But with thy fatal knife, The fragrant flow’r is crop’t from off the stalk of life. III. Come, ye _Stoicks_, come away, You that boast an Apathy, And view our _Golgotha_; See how the mourning Virgins all around, With Tributary Tears bedew the sacred ground; And tell me, tell me where’s the Eye That can be dry, Unless in hopes (nor are such hopes in vain) Their universal cry, Should mount the vaulted sky, And of the Gods obtain, A young succeeding _Phoenix_ might arise From _Orinda’s_ spicy obsequies. In Heaven the voice was heard, Heaven does the Virgins pray’rs regard; And none that dwells on high, If once the beauteous Ask, the beauteous can deny. IV. ‘Tis done, ‘tis done, th’ imperial grant is past, We have our wish at last, And now no more with sorrow be it said, _Orinda’s_ dead; Since in her seat _Astræa_ does Appear, The God of Wit has chosen her, To bear _Orinda’s_ and his Character. The Laurel Chaplet seems to grow On her more gracefull Brow; And in her hand Look how she waves his sacred Wand: Loves Quiver’s tyde In an Azure Mantle by her side, And with more gentle Arts Than he who owns the Aureal darts, At once she wounds, and heals our hearts. V.