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Oh! what discoveries

Make thy enlighten'd eyes!
Thou now those riddles art able to explain,
Which thou and I have found too hard for mortal man.
Thou now canst understand, how God
Created heaven and earth, and all things with a nod.

Thou now canst understand
How all events are ruld by the Almighty hand.

Thou pity'st, when I try
To fathom deep Eternity.

Alas! too deep the pit,
For Reason's plummet, and the line of Wit;
Too light the plummet, and too short the line,
To search into the Power and Will Divine.

Thou shalt no more
Be lost upon the boisterous seas

Of trouble and of woe,

Common to all below :
Thou ’rt safely landed on the shore
Of everlasting happiness and ease.

Thou with a pitying eye

Shalt see
Thy friends wade through a vale of misery.

Thus a happy mariner

(The Gods have seal'd for good) Brought safe to shore by some propitious star, Beholds his comrades sinking in the flood.

But art thou for ever gone?
Must thy dear flesh be eaten by the worm?
Will neither

prayers nor tears atone
For thy return?

And must thy head,
With arts and learning so well furnished,

No distinction have,

But moulder in the grave,
Together with the vile and ignominious slave?
Shall I no more converse with thee?

Shall we no more dispute?
Shall we no more the subtle Locke confute?
Shall I no more partake of thy philosophy?


Yes, we shall meet again, my friend,
In a far more happy state,

Where our joys shall know no end,
Where Death shall have no power to separate.


On the Death of my pious Friend and School felloze',


With honest tears to praise the virtuous dead,
Is the best office men to men have paid.
So the great patterns of past ages slept,
And so our great forefathers nobly wept.
The good, the young, the lovely, and the great,
Have always by the Muse been laid in state,
And in immortal verse surviv'd their fate.
The list’ning crowds with glorious heat were fir'd,
And strove to be what they so much admir'd.
Wing'd by the Muse, whene'er the Hero dies,
He takes possession of his native skies.
The pious Monarch who adorn'd his throne,
And made the cares of all mankind his own,
The purple he deserv'd must'ever have;
His fame, his worth, his honour, know no grave.
If but a Swain, a sighing Daphnis dies,
The murm’ring rivers to new sorrows rise;
The mourning spreads through all the echoing hills,
And Rhodope complains in weeping rills;
The frozen Hebrus bursts with heaving sighs,
And pours new streams of pity from his eyes;
The morning lours, the sun itself looks pale;
The flowrets hang their heads, and birds bewail.

And shall no tears, no tributary verse,
In lonely strains attend our present hearse?
Must all be swallow'd in the gulf of Death,
And shall his fame fly from us with his breath?
Will no kind Muse revive the sinking youth,
Adorn’d with letters, constancy, and truth;
Dress’d in the piety of silver hairs,
Finish'd in virtue, though a youth in years;
Who died in life's gay prime and spring of joy,
Who in the prime of life was fit to die?

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Ah! no, my friend, a thousand ties invite,
Worth, education, friendship, all unite,
And say it is my duty now to write.
Condemn my verses, but applaud my love,
Virtue like yours 'tis virtue to approve.
Fain to thy merit would my sorrow raise
A strong, a well-built monument of praise;
Such soft complain ngs as sweet Cowley sung
When his sad harp to Harvey's name he strung;
Harvey, whom ali the fields of Cambridge knew,
On ev'ry tree the sacred friendship grew,
Till the duli morn“ drave on th' unwilling light,”
As conscious what was done that dismal night.

Pangs sharp as his, fair youth, for thee i feel;
More beautiful his verse, not more his zeal.
Forgive my want of power to commend,
Unlike the Poet, though alike the Friend.

Ah! hapless youth! by what mistake of fate,
The sun which rose so bright, so soon should set?
Why wast thou torn from Nature's happiest bloom,
From lite's fair dawning hurried to the tomb ?
Thy rising virtues were with pleasure scen,
And Nature shew'd us what thou might’st have been;
But, while we gaz'd, and lov'd the heav'nly boy,
The grasp of death chill'd thee and all our joy.
So the fair product of the flowery bed,
Which rais’d above the rest its painted head,
The garden's gtory, and its master's pride,
Bedeck'd with beauteous lights on ev'ry side;
Struck by a sudden blast dissever'd lies,
And all its colour, all its beauty dies.

But, ah! we think amiss, and wrong his fame :
His race was shorter, but his prize the same.
We talk of deaths and dark untimely graves,
And blame the happy providence which saves.
We dress the pious youth in our own fears,
And count the age of Saints by common years.
While he serenely happy sits above,
Smiles at our sorrows, and forgives our love.
What is long life? What all the shine of courts?
What is the world, its business, or its sports ?
The seat of danger, error, and mistake,
Where we adore and fear the things we make.
He view'd the gilded toys with other eyes,
Who while on earth convers'd above the skies.


He reach'd the goal, ere others had begun,
And rested sooner, who had faster run.
Tell not his days, his age of virtues tell;
He liv'd a length of time, who liv'd so well.

Hail! happy youth! discharg'd from flesh and blood,
And from the very power of not being good.
Hereafter when we wash with tears thý urn,
Tis not for thee, but for ourselves we mourn,


There was a monument erected for him in the chancel of Allhallows, near the place of his burial, with the following inscription, made by Mr. Jackson, the author of the foregoing verses :

“ Respice paululum,
si sincera fides, si candida veritas,
si flos juventæ redolens virtutem

ad quod respicias habet :

Hic jacet quod post se reliquit impatiens terræ AMBROSIUS BONWICKE,

egregius multi nominis juvenis,

majoris multò postea futurus.
Qui perbreve vitæ emensus stadium,
magnum virtutis circulum feliciter complevit;

et satis vixit.
Recepit pia Sancti Johannis ædes,

nec magis piam alluit Camus ædem,
castumque formavit juvenem sinuque fovit,
nec magis castum fovit unquam juvenem,

educens bonam in frugem semina,
quæ ludus olim jecerat literarius,

cælestis irrigaverat favor,
sincero ipse excoluerat pectore.
Obiit Maii 5, 1714; ætatis suæ 23.

+ PHILIPPUS BONWICKE, Ejusdem adis alumnus, fratrem charissimum.ut pietate, ita et morte quàm proximè secutus est. Ob. enim 14 Mar. ejusdem anni (1714-15], ætat. sue 18."

* See vol. I. p. 418.

+ “ This small addition was made to the inscription on the death of his brother, who died of the small-pox, and was buried close by him; by whose death the preceding account of the life of Ambrose lost much of its perfection. But, such as it is, it


No. VI.


(See vol. II. p. 35.)

William RICHARDSON, son of Samuel Richardson, B. D. youngest son of Mr. John Richardson*, was born at Wilshamsted in Bedfordshire, where his father was vicar, July 23, 1698. He was educated at Oakham and Westminster schools, and at Emanuel college, Cambridge; B. A. there 1719 ; M. A. 1723

In 1726 he published, from Mr. Bowyer's press, the “Prælectiones Ecclesiasticæ" of his learned uncle John Richardson, B.D. well known by his masterly “ Vindication of the Canon of the New Testament," against the artifices of Mr. J. Toland, in his Amyntor. In 1730 he published four Sermons on the necessity of Revelation; and in 1733 an occasional Sermon preached at the consecration of the new parochial church of St. John, Southwark, being at that time lecturer of the parish church of St. Olave. There he married, in 1728, Anne, only daughter and heir of Mr. William Howe, of an antient family in the county-palatine of Chester, and Elizabeth his wife, only daughter and heir of Mr. Humphrey Smith, of Walton-upon-Thames, Surrey.

Having undertaken, at the request of the Bishops Gibson and Potter, to publish a new edition of “ Godwin de Præsulibus," he returned to Cam

may be depended upon as faithful, having been chiefly made up out of his letters which his father had preserved, and those other private papers which were never designed to see the light, but by his sudden death had the good fortune to outlive him.

W. Bowyer." * See Calamy, vol. II. p. 451.

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