To the Memory of his Sister, who died on his Birth-Day

The Day I snatch'd from Fate my infant Breath, That Day I grieve a dear lov'd Sister's Death: How shall it bear the usual Hymns of Praise, When Death's black Thoughts can all my Joys debase! When the revolving Year shall bring along This Tale of Woe, to stop the Muse's Song.

Say, ye kind Friends, who mix your Griefs with mine, How shall I bear the Loss, and not repine? Say, how shall I a Sister's Death rehearse In briny Tears, and mourn in flowing Verse? And thou, dear Shade, these worthless Lines approve, A slender Tribute for thy mighty Love; Thy Due in Praise is too too much for me, And my weak Verse is scarcely worthy thee; Yet I this Off'ring to thy Mem'ry bring, And taught by thy great Worth shall boldly sing.

Her Virgin-Youth was past unknown to Strife, Each fleeting Hour as if the last in Life: No Word from her e're stole upon the Ear But what an Angel might delight to hear: Actions receiv'd a Tincture from her Heart, Unmix'd with Fraud, and unimprov'd by Art: So chaste: She being dead. is only more Divorc'd from Objects, as she is from Pow'r: Devout as Saints in dying Raptures are, Who spend their Time in Extacy and Pray'r: All innocent, as is the Turtle Dove, Unyok'd, unmated with her secret Love: Sweet as the op'ning Roses infant Bloom, Who their own Lives in Fragrancy consume: By Nature beauteous, and that Beauty shone, Bright'ned by Rays shot from th' All-beauteous One: All the Perfection of the lovely Sex Did in her Mind, as in their Center mix. Thus much, her Soul, did Nature kindly arm; Thus kinder Virtue kept her Soul from Harm: With Honour thus; but not from Censure free, She liv'd the strictest Life of Piety: Sober, not dull, fill'd with superiour Sense, Grac'd with the Charms of native Innocence, The slow Disease still urg'd her Sickness on, And active Life stood waiting to be gone: In Pain her Pray'r to Heav'n incessant flew, And GOD himself was present to her View; In soft'ned Verse his endless Praise she sung, And sacred Truths flow'd from her melting Tongue: By Contemplation, Faith, and pow'rful Love, She antedated all the Bliss Above, Till the brisk Springs of Nature lost their Force, And the Soul fleeting took the heav'nly Course.

Thus Death can all our strong Desires destroy, The Parents Hope, and near Relations Joy. Her pious Life at one short Gasp is o'er, And chilly Nature lies devoid of Pow'r. In her lov'd Face no more the Graces play, She is what all must be—unactive Clay: Yet her bright self shall still a Pattern be, And Ages hence, dear Maid, shall think of Thee.

If VIRTUE lives when Nature's self is dead, Let this for her, and Virtue's sake be read: So shall these short Memorial-Verses give Life to that Name, by which alone they live.