A POEM to the Memory of Mrs. ANNE OLDFIELD

OLDFIELD's no more! and can the Muse forbear O'er Oldfield's Grave to shed a grateful Tear? Shall she, the Glory of the British Stage, Pride of her Sex, and Wonder of the Age; Shall she, who, living, charm'd th' admiring Throng, Die undistinguish'd, and not claim a Song? No; feeble as it is, I'll boldly raise My willing Voice, to celebrate her Praise, And with her Name immortalize my Lays.

Had but my Muse her Art to touch the Soul, Charm ev'ry Sense, and ev'ry Pow'r controul, I'd paint her as she was—The Form divine, Where ev'ry lovely Grace united shine; A Mien majestic, as the Wife of Jove; An Air as winning, as the Queen of Love: In ev'ry Feature rival Charms should rise, And Cupid hold his Empire in her Eyes.

A Soul, with ev'ry Elegance refin'd By Nature, and the Converse of Mankind: Wit, which could strike assuming Folly dead; And Sense, which temper'd ev'ry thing she said; Judgment, which ev'ry little Fault could spy; But Candour, that would pass a Thousand by: Such finish'd Breeding, so polite a Taste, Her Fancy always for the Fashion past; Whilst ev'ry social Virtue fir'd her Breast To help the Needy, succour the Distrest; A Friend to all in Misery she stood, And her chief Pride was plac'd in doing Good.

But now, my Muse, the arduous Task engage, And shew the charming Figure on the Stage; Describe her Look, her Action, Voice, and Mien, The gay Coquet, soft Maid, or haughty Queen. So bright she shone, in ev'ry diff'rent Part, She gain'd despotic Empire o'er the Heart; Knew how each various Motion to controul, Sooth ev'ry Passion, and subdue the Soul: As she or gay, or sorrowful appears, She claims our Mirth, or triumphs in our Tears. When Cleopatra's Form she chose to wear, We saw the Monarch's Mien, the Beauty's Air; Charm'd with the Sight, her Cause we all approve, And, like her Lover, give up all for Love: Antony's Fate, instead of Caesar's, choose, And wish for her we had a World to lose.

But now the gay delightful Scene is o'er, And that sweet Form must glad our World no more; Relentless Death has stop'd the tuneful Tongue, And clos'd those Eyes, for all, but Death, too strong: Blasted that Face where ev'ry Beauty bloom'd, And to eternal Rest the graceful Mover doom'd.