best estate, yet I must acknowledge that my temper leads me most to the pleasant scenes of Heaven, and that future world of blessedness. When I recollect the memory of my friends that are dead, I frequently rove in the world of spirits, and search them out there: thus I endeavoured to trace Mrs. Warner; and these thoughts crowding fast upon me, I set them down for my own entertainment. The verse breaks off abruptly, because I had no design to write a finished elegy; and besides, when I was fallen upon the dark side of death, I had no mind to tarry there. If the lines I have written be so happy as to entertain you a little, and divert your grief, the time spent in composing them shall not be reckoned among my lost hours, and the review will be more pleasing to,

SIR,

Your affectionate humble servant,

I. W.

AN ELEGIAC THOUGHT

ON MRS. ANNE WARNER,

Wha died of the smallpox, Dec. 13, 1707, at one o'clock in the morning, a few days after the birth and death of her first child.

AWAKE, my Muse, range the wide world of souls,
And seek Vernera fled; with upward aim
Direct thy wing; for she was borne from Heaven,
Fulfill'd her visit, and return'd on high.

The midnight watch of angels that patrole
The British sky have notic'd her ascent

Near the meridian star; pursue the track
To the bright confines of immortal day
And Paradise, her home. Say, my Urania,

(For nothing 'scapes thy search, nor canst thou miss So fair a spirit) say, beneath what shade

Of amaranth or cheerful evergreen

She sits, recounting to her kindred-minds,
Angelic or humane, her mortal toil

And travels through this howling wilderness:
By what Divine protection she escap'd

Those deadly snares when youth and Satan leagu'd

In combination to assail her virtue;

(Snares set to murder souls) but Heaven secur'd
The favourite nymph, and taught her victory.
Or does she seek, or has she found her babe
Amongst the infant nation of the bless'd,
And clasp'd it to her soul, to satiate there
The young maternal passion, and absolve
The unfulfill'd embrace? thrice happy child,
That saw the light, and turn'd its eyes aside
From our dim regions to the' Eternal Sun,
And led the parent's way to glory! there
Thou art for ever her's, with powers enlarg'd
For love reciprocal and sweet converse.
Behold her ancestors (a pious race)
Rang'd in fair order, at her sight rejoice
And sing her welcome. She, along their seats
Gliding, salutes them all with honours due;
Such as are paid in Heaven: and last she finds
A mansion fashion'd of distinguish'd light,

But vacant: This,' with sure presage she cries, 6 Awaits my father; when will he arrive?

How long, alas, how long!' Then calls her mate'Die, thou dear partner of my mortal cares, Die, and partake my bliss; we are for ever one.'

Ah me! where roves my fancy! what kind dreams Crowd with sweet violence on my waking mind! Perhaps illusions all; inform me, Muse; Chooses she rather to retire apart,

To recollect her dissipated powers,

And call her thoughts her own; so lately freed
From earth's vain scenes, gay visits, gratulations,
From Hymen's hurrying and tumultuous joys,
And fears and pangs, fierce pangs that wrought
her death!

Tell me on what sublimer theme she dwells
In contemplation, with unerring clue
Infinite truth pursuing. (When, my soul,
O when shall thy release from cumbrous flesh
Pass the great seal of Heaven? what happy hour
Shall give thy thoughts a loose to soar and trace
The intellectual world? divine delight!
Vernera's lov'd employ !) perhaps she sings
To some new golden harp the' almighty deeds,
The names, the honours of her Saviour God,
His cross, his grave, his victory, and his crown:
Oh, could I imitate the' exalted notes,

And mortal ears could bear them!

Or lies she now before the' eternal throne Prostrate in humble form, with deep devotion O'erwhelm'd, and self-abasement at the sight Of the uncover'd Godhead face to face! Seraphic crowns pay homage at his feet, And her's amongst them, not of dimmer ore, Nor set with meaner gems; but vain ambition, And emulation vain, and fond conceit, And pride for ever banish'd flies the place, Curs'd pride, the dress of hell. Tell me, Urania, How her joys heighten, and her golden hours

Circle in love. O stamp upon my soul
Some blissful image of the fair deceas'd,
To call my passions and my eyes aside

From the dear breathless clay, distressing sight!
I look, and mourn, and gaze with greedy view
Of melancholy fondness: tears bedewing
That form so late desir'd, so late belov'd,
Now loathsome and unlovely. Base disease,
That leagued with Nature's sharpest pains, and
spoil'd

So sweet a structure! the impoisoning taint

O'erspreads the building wrought with skill divine, And ruins the rich temple to the dust!

Was this the countenance, where the world admir'd

Features of wit and virtue? this the face

Where love triumph'd? and beauty on these cheeks,
As on a throne, beneath her radiant eyes,
Was seated to advantage; mild, serene,
Reflecting rosy light? so sits the sun

(Fair eye of Heav'n!) upon a crimson cloud
Near the horizon, and with gentle ray
Smiles lovely round the sky; till rising fogs,
Portending night, with foul and heavy wing
Involve the golden star, and sink him down
Oppress'd with darkness.

ON THE DEATH OF AN

AGED AND HONOURED RELATIVE,

MRS. M-W.

July 13, 1693.

I KNOW the kindred-mind. 'Tis she, 'tis she;
Among the heavenly forms I see

The kindred-mind from fleshly bondage free;
O how unlike the thing was lately seen
Groaning and panting on the bed,
With ghastly air, and languish'd head,
Life on this side, there the dead,
While the delaying flesh lay shivering between.

Long did the earthly house restrain In toilsome slavery that ethereal guest, Prison'd her round in walls of pain,

And twisted cramps and aches within her chain:
Till by the weight of numerous days oppress'd
The earthly house began to reel,

The pillars trembled, and the building fell;
The captive soul became her own again :
Tir'd with the sorrows and the cares,

A tedious train of fourscore years,

The prisoner smil'd to be releas'd,

She felt her fetters loose, and mounted to her rest.

Gaze on, my soul, and let a perfect view

Paint her idea all anew;

Rase out those melancholy shapes of woe

That hang around thy memory, and becloud it so.