On the DEATH of that Excellent Young Man, Mr. SHIRLEY, Junior

While the inspired Throng, on Harps well play'd, Thee lost, in weeping Strains rehearse, Do not refuse, thou amiable Shade, This slender Duty of my Verse.

To whom, if Phoebus shine with friendlier Ray, So many Years she'll Give thy Fame, As hasty Death, dear Youth, has Snatch'd away, From Life's too perishable Frame.

The faithful Paper ever shall declare Thy Deeds, thy Modesty, thy Worth, And praise a Soul divinely good and fair, Endowed with Virtue, from its Birth.

But here, alas, no Virtue can detain The fleeting Soul; no Worth, or Grace, Can stop a Fever's lamentable Pain, Or make fierce Death resign his Place.

What profits all thy quick and shining Sense, Thy Genius, Parts, or Strength, of Thought? Too Soon, O Virtue! art thou call'd from hence, Thy Honours, early Wit, are short.

Narcissus, so amidst a Thousand, best, No lovelier Flower to be found, The Gardens Pride, stood far above the rest, Now Storms have levell'd with the Ground.