Envy and Fraud, Hypocrify and Pride,
And bold Ambition arm'd for Parricide;
The certain Lofs of Liberty and Laws,
And Ufurpation, an intolerable Caufe.
All thefe, and more, have brought us here;
Let no Man doubt, let no Man fear;
His Caufe is Fuft, and if he falls to Diy,
For fo by Chance he may.

At worst, his Name fhall wear
Alarge and noble Character;
But his exalted Soul fhall fly

The Boundless Pitch of vaft Eternity.

He fpoke; his Soldiers much approve Despair and Fear quit ev'ry Breast,

Rage and Revenge their Place poffefs'd:

And then with wond'rous Order t'wards the Foe they move. But who th' Amazement and th' Affright can tell,

That on the other Army fell?

Or who, without Aftonishment, can fay,

The wond'rous Things this great Man did that Day?
In vain their routed Squadrons Ay,

In vain, aloud, for Help they cry,

The Battel's loft, and they must yield, or die.
But, fee of human Things, the brittle State!
The only best, and best deserving Man,

That should have breath'd beyond the common Span,
The laft that meets triumphantly his Fate;
As he was lifting up his Hand,
To give the finishing Command,
Comes a malicious random Shor,
And ftruck the Victor dead upon the Spot.
Methinks I fee the wounded Hero lie,

Too good to live, and yet too brave to die;

I hear him blefs his Caufe, and more he had to fay,
But, oh! the hafty Soul could make no longer Stay.
Unconquer'd Man, farewel!

Now thou art gone to dwell
Where thou shalt be entirely free
From all the Curfes of Mortality.

w

No

No anxious Thoughts fhall wreck thy Breaft,
No Factions fhall disturb thy Reft;
Nor fhalt thou be by Tyranny opprefs'd.
Thy Learning and thy Parts,

Thy Knowledge in the nobleft, ufeful Arts,

Thy Converfation and thy Wit,

Spoke thee for Earth unmeet, for Heav'n only fit.
Live bleft Above, almost invok'd below;

Live, and accept this pious Pow,

Our Captain once, our Guardian Angel now.
Live, and enjoy those great Rrwards are due,

}

To those who to their Prince are Faithful, Juft, and True.

When he had finifh'd his Poem, he inclos'd it in the following Letter to Dr. Griffith, and fent it the next Night to the Club, which was then at the Castle Tavern in Fleet-Street.

Dear Doctor,

T your Request, I have writ fomething, which, if

A you think fit, you may call an Elegy upon the

Viscount Dundee. But,in Truth, Sir, I am fo ill acquainted with that Kind of Writing, that I could have wish'd you would have pitch'd upon fome Body elfe for your Operator. As for Crambo, Acroftick, Anagram, and fuch Sort of Performances, I think my felf not much below my Name fake Durfey, or any other of the Gentlemen of that Order; but for this Elegiack Way, I know no more of it, with Refpect to his Holiness be it fpoken, than the Pope of Rome. I was two Days at least hunting for a Precedent, at laft I fell in with Mr. Cowley's Imitation of Pindar, whom I have been fo impudent to attempt to mimick; fo that if this mighty Production should ever pafs into any other Hands, it must be dignify'd with the Title of a Pindarick Elegy, in Imitation of Mr. Cowley. But, Sir, to be a little ferious, I am afraid I have not treated this great Man's Character as he deferves; and withal, I am told, Mr. Dryden has fomething of this Nature new upon the Stocks, fo I must beg of you, up

on

on these and other weighty Confiderations, that after you have read over the Paper, you'll immediately apply it to the proper Ufe. Sir, you fee by this, how ready I am, and always fhall be, to obey your Commands, and to take all Opportunies to approve my felf

T

The PREFACE."

Wont fay any Thing in Behalf of the following Poem. 4 Prifon is none of the most delightful Places for a Mufe to exert ber Talent in; and tho' Verfe, in Refpect of Profe, is a confin'd Sort of Writing, yet no People hate Confinement more than

Poets.

'Tis true, I as little thought, a few Years ago, of turning Poet, as, with all due Reverence be it said, any of the most topping Citizens about the Exchange do now; but the Cafe is alter'd, and for want of employing my Time better, (which was none of my own Fault) I was forc'd, and I hope that will) justify me, to employ it in innocent Rhiming.

But let the Verfification be what it will, my Subject and Defign, I am fure, is virtuous and honeft. I plead for Compaffion and Pity to our Fellow-Creatures; and furely we should be afham'd of boafting our felves made after the Divine Like

Vol. IV.

D

ness,

nefs, if we don't copy our Maker in what, with Relation to our felves, is the best of his Attributes.

I will not rail at thofe Perfons, by whofe Importunity and Management the late Act against poor Prifoners was carry'd, that were but too miferable before; only it may be worth their while to ruminate a little upon the Apostles Words, Let him that ftands, take Care of Falling. The World's a Lottery, and he that preaches again giving Relief to Day, may want it for himself and Family to Morrow. That ill condition'd Engineer, who prefented Phalaris with the Brazen Bull, was the first that handfell'd it. And after all, Why should numberlefs Wretches farve for a few Delinquents?

If Numbers fignify any Thing to gain a Caufe, we have above Sixty Thousand Hands to fign this Paper. We don't pretend to Copy the Impudence of the Legion Letter; no, 'tis our Bufinefs to fupplicate, not huff Parliaments; nay, even to But tho' we are Speak fair to the meanest of our Creditors. far from imitating the Infolence of the late Legion, yet 'tis plain the Name but too justly belongs to us, for, Heaven. knows, we are a Parcel of poor unpity'd Devils.

The Mourning Poet: Or, The unknown Comforts of Imprisonment, written in the Tear 1703, and calculated for the Meridian of the three populous Univerfities of the Queen's-Bench, the Marfhalfea, and the Fleet; but may indifferently ferve any Prifon in the Kingdom of England, Dominion of Wales, or Town of Berwick upon Tweed.

Ince my

hard Fate has doom'd me to a Jayl,
Some fcolding Mufe direct me how to rail:
And let this Curfe, by my ill Genius fent,
As 'tis my Penance, be my Argument.

The Scene of Life with Black and White spread o'er,
Here fews us Want, and there fuperfluous Store.

The

The Rich Man and the Poor be then my Theme;
Having been both, I beft can judge of them.

A Rich Man, what is he? Has he a Frame
Diftinct from others? Or a better Name?

Has he more Legs, more Arms, more Eyes, more Brains?
Has he lefs Care, lefs Croffes, or lefs Pains?
Can Riches keep the mortal Wretch from Death?
Or can new Treasures purchase a new Breath?
Or does Heaven fend its Love and Mercy more
to Mammon's pamper'd Sons than to the Poor?
If not, why should the Fool take fo much State,
Exalt himself and others under-rate ?
'Tis fenfelefs Ignorance, that fooths his Pride,
And makes him laugh at all the World befide.
But when Exceffes bring on Gout or Stone,
All his vain Mirth and Gayety are gone.
Then to make any Truce with his Difeafe,
And purchase the least Interval of Eafe,
He'd all his ill-got Magazines refign,
And at Health's Altar facrifice his Coin:
And when he dies, for all he looks fo high,
He'll make as vile a Skeleton as I.

To number out the feveral Sorts of Poor,
Would be to count the Billows on the Shore ;
My Mufe fhall therefore all the rest decline,
And to the Industrious Man her felf confine;
Who with inceffant Labour strives to live,
And yet by cruel Accidents can't thrive.
To trace th' orig'nal Fountain of his Woe,
From whence the Grofs of all his Ills do flow;
With War I must begin, whose fatal Doom
Ruins all Trade as well Abroad as Home:
The dire Effects the Merchant feels the first,
And all the other Trades by War are curs'd;
The Vintners, whom I own I pity moft,
Are daily in this curfed Scramble loft.
And who can wonder that fo many fail,
When righteous Claret truckles to vile Ale,
And Barcelona ftoops to Belgick Mild and Stale.

D-2

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War