In Memory of the Right Hon. NEVIL Lord LOVELACE.

In the calm hour, when pleasure most prevails,
 And smooth prosperity has swell'd your sails,
 The sportive Muse her humble lyre has strung,
 To join the triumph with some idle song:
 And shall she now, when nature smiles no more,
 When tempests rise, and surges lash the shore,
 Sit doubtful, and the serious lay refuse? 
Shall Lovelace sigh, nor sympathize the Muse? 

In life's mixt scene, where various parts agree
 To form one tedious Tragi-Comedy,
 How few, alas! in either part can shine? 
But both to grace, what forces must combine! 
In some low scene is Silia deem'd a wit? 
With patience 'meekest ear attentive sit. 
In mimic state, and proud fantastic pow'r,
 Is Fulvia crown'd the Queen of half an hour? 
The Queen of half an island if she please;
 The wise have no debates with such as these. 
But when the rising scenes with anguish swell,
 'Tis Yours the higher, harder part to tell,
 And dignify distress by suff'ring well. 
Whether the Stoic's, or the Christian's part,
 Found in the head, or working at the heart;
 Here all the kind affections, touch'd, comply;
 There rous'd again to study'd apathy. 

Come, false Philosophy! as proud as vain,
 Talk well of virtue, talk it o'er again;
 Deep in the heart true Fortitude's conceal'd,
 And needs no eloquence to be reveal'd. 
Yet speak! O tell me! whence this clam of mind? 
The will obedient, and the wish resign'd;
 The steady temper, and the look serene,
 And all a Sister's woe in silence seen? 
That I may learn, when by misfortune prest,
 To yeild with meekness, or with strength resist. 

Brave Youth! with ev'ry virtue crown'd, farewel! 
How truly lov'd, young Walpole's Muse can tell. 
He to the Tomb has led the weeping Nine,
 And hung the wreath of friendship o'er the shrine. 
Not sweeter notes, whom Pope consigns to fame,
 "Attend the shade of gentle Buckingham." 
Here the pale Loves, and sick'ning Graces mourn,
 And there the Sister weeping o'er the Urn:
 Like some fair pillar nodding o'er it's base,
 The last remaining ruin of her race;
 Left but to make their milder virtues known,
 And fill the radiant circle with her own. 

Useless the marble, and the mournful crest,
 No tomb so lovely as a sister's breast;
 There shall thy mem'ry live, by time improv'd,
 And she for virtues, once thy own, be lov'd:
 Not such as make of Kings and Queens a Friend,
 But such as grac'd thy life, and bless'd thy end;
 Truth unaffected, Manners void of art,
 Plain Sense, and strong Benevolence of heart. 

Oft as she eyes yon bright etherial plain,
 And burns to follow Thee, and mix again;
 Some tender friendships, some endearing ties,
 Cling round her heart, and hold her from the skies. 
A little while, and these shall all decay,
 And the free soul emerge to endless day:
 Where, having long sustain'd the faithful part,
 The strong attraction seizing all her heart,
 Her gentler orb shall round it's center move,
 Re-kindled into Harmony and Love.