the Earl of Rochester. 47

Mourn, all ye little Gods of Love, vvliose DartsHave lost their wanted Pow’r gf piercing Hearts;

Lay by the Gilded Quiver and the Bow,

The useless Toys can do no Mischief now. '

Those Eyes. that all your Arrows-Points inspir’d,Those Lights that gave you Fire, are now retir’d;

Gold as his Tomb, Pale as your Mother’s Doves :Bewail him then, O ! all ye little Loves !

For you the humblest Votary have lost,

That ever your Divinities could boast.

Upon your Hands your weeping Heads recline,

And l^t your Wings encompass round his Shrine jInstead of Flow’rs, your broken Arrows st row.

And at his Feet lsty the neglected stow.

Mourn, all ye little Gods, your Loss deplore ^

The soft, the charming Strep hon is no more.Large was his Fame, but short his glorious Race;Like young Lucretius, liv’d and dy’d apace:

So early Roses fade, so over all

They cast their fragrant Scents, then softly fall;

While all the scatter’d perfum’d Leaves declare,

How lovely ’twas when whole ; how sweet, how fair.Had he been to the Roman Empire known,

When Great Augustus fill'd the peaceful Throne ;Had he that noble wond’rous Poet seen,

And known his Genius, and survey'd his Mien,

(When Wits and Heroes grac’d divine Abodes)

He had increas’d the Number of their Gods ;

The Royal Judge had Temples rear’d t’ his Name,And made him as Immortal as his Fame.

In Love and Verse his Ovid he’d outdone,

And all his Laurels, and his Julia won.

Mourn, mourn, unhappy World, .his Loss deplore,The great, the charming Strefhon is no more.

O N