The Convert.

WHEN first I saw Lucinda's face,

And viewed the dazzling glories there;
She seem'd of a diviner race,

Than that which nature planted here.
With sacred homage down I fell,

Wondering whence such a form could spring

Tell me, I cry'd, fair vision, tell

The dread commands from Heav'n you bring.

For if past sins may be forgiven ;
By this bright evidence I know,
The careful Gods have made a Heaven,
That made such angels for it too.

MARY MONK.

About 1715.

Daughter of Robert, the first Viscount Molesworth, who, after her death, published her poems in one volume, called Marinda, 1716, and dedicated them to the Princess, afterwards Queen Caroline.

An Elegie on a Favourite Dog.

TO HER FATHER.

WHO can forbid the Muses tears to flow?

On such a subject to indulge her woe?
Where e'er fidelity and love are join'd,
They claim the tribute of a grateful mind.
Birds have had funeral rites, and with swoln eyes
Fair Lesbia graced her sparrow's obsequies;
His warlike steed young Ammon did lament,
And raised a city for his monument.

That bright celestial dog that decks the skies,
Did by his merit to that honour rise:

And all the virtues by which men renowned

To heavenly seats have climb'd, in dogs are found. None dare in glorious dangers farther go,

None are more watchful to repel the foe
Nor are those tenderer qualities of mind
That most endear us, strangers to thy kind.
In human race, alas! we seldom prove
So firm a friendship, so unfeign'd a love.

Can any then, your grateful labours blame,
Or wonder, you should to your favourite's name
The last just honours pay? it were not fit
So bright a merit should in darkness set,
That he who so distinguish'd lived, shou'd dye,
And in the common herd forgotten lye..
No; let a monumental marble tell

How dear he lived, and how bewail'd he fell.

Press gently on him earth, and all around

Ye flowers spring up, and deck th' enamell'd ground;

Breathe forth

your choicest odours, and perfume With all your fragrant sweets his little tomb.

To her Husband.

Written on her death bed.

THOU who dost all my worldly thoughts employ,
Thou pleasing source of all my earthly joy.
Thou tenderest husband, and thou dearest friend,
To thee thus fond, this last advice I send.
At length the conqueror Death asserts his right,
And will for ever veil me from thy sight,
He woos me to him with a chearful grace,
And not one sorrow clouds his aweful face:

He promises a lasting rest from pain,

And shows that all life's pleasing dreams are vain; The eternal joys of heaven he sets in view,

And tells me that no other joys are true.

But love, fond love, would fain resist his power,
And yet awhile defer the parting hour,
It brings thy mournful image to my eyes,
And would obstruct my journey to the skies,
But say thou dearest, thou unwearied friend,
Say wouldst thou mourn to see my sorrows end?
Thou know'st the painful pilgrimage I've past,
And would'st thou grieve that rest is come at last?
Rather rejoice to see me shake off life,

And die, as I have lived, your faithful wife.

CHARLES MONTAGUE,

EARL OF HALIFAX.

Horton, Northamptonshire, 1661-1715.

The Macenas of his age.

From the Man of Honour.

Occasioned by a Postscript of Penn's Letter.

*

LET other nations boast their fruitful soil,
Their fragrant spices, their rich wine and oil;
In breathing colours, and in living paint,
Let them excel; their mastery we grant.
But to instruct the mind, to arm the soul
With virtue which no dangers can control;
Exalt the thought, a speedy courage lend,
That horror cannot shake, or pleasure bend;