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To the Memory of Nicholas Rowe Esq;
his Wife erected this Monument.
HY reliques, Rowe, to this fair farine we truft,
And facred, place by Dryden's awful duft:
Beneath a rude and nameless stone he lies,
To which thy tomb Ihall guide inquiring eyes.
Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless reft!
Blest in thy genius, in thy love too blest !
One grateful woman to thy fame supply'd,
What a whole thankless land to his denyd.
EE the wild waste of all-devouring years!
How Rome her own fad fepulchre appears :
With nodding arches, broken temples spread!
The very tombs now vanith'd like their dead!
Some felt the filent stroke of mould'ring age;
Some, hostile fury; some, religious rage;
Barbarian blindness, christian zeal conspire,
And papal piety, and Gothick fire.
Perhaps by its own ruin fav'd from flame,
Some bury'd marble half preserves a name;
That name, the learn'd with fierce disputes pursue,
And give to Titus, old Vespasian's due.
Ambition figh’d. She found it vain to trust
The faithless column, and the crumbling bust;
Huge moles, whose shadow stretch from shore to shore,
Their ruins perish'd, and their place no more!
Convinc'd, the now contracts her vaft design;
And all her triumphs shrink into a coin.
A narrow orb each crowded conquest keeps;
Beneath her palm here fad Judaa weeps ;
Now scantier limits the proud arch confine,
And scarce are seen the proftrate Nile and Rhine:
A small Euphrates thro' the piece is rolld;
And little Eagles wave their wings in gold.
The medal, faithful to its charge of fame,
Thro' climes and ages bears each form and name:
In one short view, subjected to our eye,
Gods, emp’rors, heroes, fages, beauties lie.
With sharpen'd fight pale antiquaries pore,
Th' inscription value; but the rust adore:
This, the blue varnish, that, the green endears,
The sacred ruft of twice ten hundred years.
To gain Percennius one employs his schemes;
One grasps a Cecrops in ecstatic dreams:
Poor Vadius, long with learned spleen devour'd,
Can tafte no pleasure fince his shield was fcour'd;
And Curio, restless by the fair one's fide,
Sighs for an Otho, and neglects his bride.
Theirs is the vanity, the learning thine,
Touch'd by thy hand, again Rome's glories shine
Her gods, and god-like heroes rise to view,
And all her faded garlands bloom anew.
Nor blush, these studies thy regard engage;
.These pleas'd the fathers of poetick rage;
The verse and sculpture bore an equal part;.
And art reflected images to art.
Oh when shall Britain, conscious of her claiin,
Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame?
In living medals see her wars enrolld,
And vanquish'd realms supply recording gold?
Here, rising bold, the patriot's honest face;-
There warriors frowning in hiftoric brass.
Then future ages with delight fhall fee,
How Plato's, Bacon's, Newton's looks agree:
Or in fair feries laurell'd bards be shown,
A Virgil there, and here an Addison.
Then shall thy Craggs (and let me call him inine)
On the cast ore, another Pollio, shine ;
With aspect open shall erect his head,
And round the osb with lafting notes be read.
“ Statesman, yet friend to truth, in foul fincere,
« In action faithful, and in honour clear;
“ Who broke no promise, serv'd no private end,
" Who gain’d no title, and who loft no friend;
• Ennobled by himself, by all approv'd,
And prais'd, unenvy'd, by the muse he lov'd.