That with your numbers you our zeal might raise, And, like himself, communicate your joy.

When to your native Heaven you shall repair, And with your presence crown the blessings there, Your lute may wind its strings but little higher, To tune their notes to that immortal quire. Your art is perfect here; your numbers do, More than our books, make the rude atheist know, That there's a Heaven, by what he hears below.

As in some piece, while Luke his skill exprest, A cunning angel came, and drew the rest: So, when you play, some godhead does impart Harmonious aid, divinity helps art;

Some cherub finishes what you begun,

And to a miracle improves a tune.

To burning Rome when frantic Nero play'd,
Viewing that face, no more he had survey'd
The raging flames; but, struck with strange surprise,
Confest them less than those of Anna's eyes:
But, had he heard thy lute, he soon had found
His rage eluded, and his crime aton'd:

Thine, like Amphion's hand, had wak'd the stone,
And from destruction call'd the rising town:
Malice to Music had been forc'd to yield;
Nor could he burn so fast, as thou couldst build.

PICTURE OF SENECA DYING IN A BATH.

BY JORDAIN.1 AT THE RIGHT HON.

THE EARL OF EXETER'S, AT BURLEIGH HOUSE.

WHILE cruel Nero only drains
The moral Spaniard's ebbing veins,
By study worn, and slack with age,
How dull, how thoughtless is his rage!
Heighten'd revenge he should have took;
He should have burnt his tutor's book;
And long have reign'd supreme in vice :
One nobler wretch can only rise;
'Tis he whose fury shall deface

The stoic's image in this piece.

1 Jacques Jordain was born at Antwerp in 1584; was a disciple of Adam van Oort, but was indebted to Rubens for the principal part of his knowledge in the art of painting: "He painted with extraordinary freedom, ease, and expedition; there is a brilliancy and harmony in his colouring, and a good understanding of the Chiaroscuro. His composition is rich, his expression natural and strong, but his design wanted elegance and taste. He studied and copied nature, yet he neither selected its beauties, nor rejected its defects. He knew how to give his figures a good relief, though frequently incorrect in the outlines; but his pencil is always excellent, and for a free and spirited touch, no painter can be accounted his superior." Pilkington's Dictionary of Painters. He died in 1678, aged 84 years.

For while unhurt, divine Jordain,
Thy work and Seneca's remain,
He still has body, still has soul,

And lives and speaks, restor❜d and whole.

AN ODE.

WHILE blooming youth, and gay delight
Sit on thy rosy cheeks confest,
Thou hast, my dear, undoubted right
To triumph o'er this destin'd breast.

My reason bends to what thy eyes ordain :
For I was born to love, and thou to reign.

But would you meanly thus rely
On power, you know I must obey?
Exert a legal tyranny ;

And do an ill, because you may ?

Still must I thee, as atheists Heaven adore;
Not see thy mercy, and yet dread thy power?

Take heed, my dear, youth flies apace;
As well as Cupid, Time is blind:
Soon must those glories of thy face

The fate of vulgar beauty find:

The thousand loves, that arm thy potent eye, Must drop their quivers, flag their wings, and die.

Then wilt thou sigh, when in each frown
A hateful wrinkle more appears;
And putting peevish humours on,

Seems but the sad effect of years:
Kindness itself too weak a charm will prove,
To raise the feeble fires of aged love.

Forc'd compliments and formal bows
Will show thee just above neglect :
The heat with which thy lover glows,
Will settle into cold respect:

A talking dull Platonic I shall turn ;
Learn to be civil, when I cease to burn.

Then shun the ill, and know, my dear,
Kindness and constancy will prove
The only pillars fit to bear

So vast a weight as that of love.

If thou canst wish to make my flames endure,
Thine must be very fierce, and very pure.

Haste, Celia, haste, while youth invites,
Obey kind Cupid's present voice;
Fill ev'ry sense with soft delights,

And give thy soul a loose to joys:

Let millions of repeated blisses prove,
That thou all kindness art, and I all love.

Be mine, and only mine; take care

Thy looks, thy thoughts, thy dreams to guide

To me alone; nor come so far,

As liking any youth beside:

What men e'er court thee, fly 'em, and believe, They're serpents all, and thou the tempted Eve.

So shall I court thy dearest truth,
When beauty ceases to engage;
So thinking on thy charming youth,
I'll love it o'er again in age:
So time itself our raptures shall improve,
While still we wake to joy, and live to love.

AN

EPISTLE TO FLEETWOOD SHEPHERD, ESQ.

BURLEIGH, MAY 14, 1689.

SIR,

As once a twelvemonth to the priest,
Holy at Rome, here antichrist,

The Spanish king presents a jennet,

To show his love;-That's all that's in it:
For if his holiness would thump

His reverend bum 'gainst horse's rump,
He might b' equipt from his own stable
With one more white, and eke more able.
Or as with Gondolas, and men, his
Good excellence the Duke of Venice