On the Death of the Honourable Mr. James Thynne , younger Son to the Right Honourable the Lord Viscount Weymouth . FArewel , lov'd Youth ! since 'twas the Will of Heaven So soon to take , what had so late been giv'n ; And thus our Expectations to destroy , Raising a Grief , where we had form'd a Joy ; Who once believ'd , it was the Fates Design In Him to double an Illustrious Line , And in a second Channel spread that Race Where ev'ry Virtue shines , with every Grace . But we mistook , and 'twas not here below That this engrafted Scion was to grow ; The Seats above requir'd him , that each Sphere Might soon the Offspring of such Parents share Resign him then to the supream Intent , You , who but Flesh to that blest Spirit lent . Again disrob'd , let him to Bliss retire , And only bear from you , amidst that Choir , What , Precept or Example did inspire , A Title to Rewards , from that rich store Of Pious Works , which you have sent before . Then lay the fading Reliques , which remain , In the still Vault ( excluding farther Pain ) ; Where Kings and Counsellors their Progress close , And his renowned Ancestors repose ; Where Lord Keeper Coventry . COVENTRY withdrew All but in Name , Leaving the World his Benefits and Fame ; Where his Paternal Predecessor lies , Once large of Thought , and rank'd among the Wise ; Whose Genius in Long-Leat we may behold ( A Pile , as noble as if he'd been told By WEYMOUTH , it shou'd be in time possest , And strove to suit the Mansion to the Guest . ) Nor favour'd , nor disgrac'd , there ESSEX sleeps , Nor SOMERSET his Master's Sorrows weeps , Who to the shelter of th' unenvy'd Grave Convey'd the Monarch , whom he cou'd not save ; Though , Roman-like , his own less-valu'd Head He proffer'd in that injur'd Martyr's stead . Nor let that matchless The Lady Packington , supposed by many to be the Author of The Whole Duty of Man. Female 'scape my Pen , Who their Whole Duty taught to weaker Men , And of each Sex the Two best Gifts enjoy'd , The Skill to write , the Modesty to hide ; Whilst none shou'd that Performance disbelieve , Who led the Life , might the Directions give . With such as These , whence He deriv'd his Blood , Great on Record , or eminently Good , Let Him be laid , till Death's long Night shall cease , And breaking Glory interrupt the Peace . Mean-while , ye living Parents , ease your Grief By Tears , allow'd as Nature's due Relief . For when we offer to the Pow'rs above , Like You , the dearest Objects of our Love ; When , with that patient Saint in Holy Writ , We've learnt at once to Grieve , and to Submit ; When contrite Sighs , like hallow'd Incense , rise Bearing our Anguish to th' appeased Skies ; Then may those Show'rs , which take from Sorrow birth , And still are tending tow'rd this baleful Earth , O'er all our deep and parching Cares diffuse , Like Eden's Springs , or Hermon's soft'ning Dews . But lend your Succours , ye Almighty Pow'rs , For as the Wound , the Balsam too is Yours . In vain are Numbers , or persuasive Speech , What Poets write , or what the Pastors teach , Till You , who make , again repair the Breach . For when to Shades of Death our Joys are fled , When for a Loss , like This , our Tears are shed None can revive the Heart , but who can raise the Dead . But yet , my Muse , if thou hadst softer Verse Than e'er bewail'd the melancholy Herse ; If thou hadst Pow'r to dissipate the Gloom Inherent to the Solitary Tomb ; To rescue thence the Memory and Air Of what we lately saw so Fresh , so Fair ; Then shou'd this Noble Youth thy Art engage To shew the Beauties of his blooming Age , The pleasing Light , that from his Eyes was cast , Like hasty Beams , too Vigorous to last ; Where the warm Soul , as one the Confines , lay Ready for Flight , and for Eternal Day . Gently dispos'd his Nature shou'd be shown , And all the Mother's Sweetness made his Own . The Father's Likeness was but faintly seen , As ripen'd Fruits are figur'd by the Green . Nor cou'd we hope , had he fulfill'd his Days , He shou'd have reach'd WEYMOUTH's unequal'd Praise . Still One distinguish'd Plant each Lineage shews , And all the rest beneath it's Stature grows . Of Tully's Race but He possess'd the Tongue , And none like Julius from the Caesars sprung . Next , in his harmless Sports he shou'd be drawn Urging his Courser , o'er the flow'ry Lawn ; Sprightly Himself , as the enliven'd Game , Bold in the Chace , and full of gen'rous Flame ; Yet in the Palace , Tractable and Mild , Perfect in all the Duties of a Child ; Which fond Reflection pleases , whilst it pains , Like penetrating Notes of sad Harmonious Strains . Selected Friendships timely he began , And siez'd in Youth that best Delight of Man . Leaving a growing Race to mourn his End , Their earliest and their Ages promis'd Friend . But far away alas ! that Prospect moves , Lost in the Clouds , like distant Hills and Groves , Whilst with encreasing Steps we all pursue What Time alone can bring to nearer View , That Future State , which Darkness yet involves , Known but by Death , which ev'ry Doubt resolves .