DENHAM'S

Which nature only, and no art could find,
But what he taught before, fhe call'd to mind.
Thefe to his fons (as Xenophon records)

Of the great Cyrus were the dying words;

Fear not when I depart (nor therefore mourn) "I shall no where, or to nothing turn:

That foul, which gave me life, was fcen by none, Yet by the actions it defign'd, was known; And though its flight no mortal eye fhall fee, "Yet know, for ever it the fame fhall be. "That foul, which can inmortal glory give

To her own virtues, muft for ever live.

"Can you believe, that man's all-knowing mind "Can to a mortal body be confin'd?

Though a foul foolish prifon her immure

"On earth, the (when efcap'd) is wife and pure.
"Man's body, when diffolv'd, is but the fame
"With beaits, and must return from whence it
64 came;

"But whence into our bodies reafon flows,

"None fees it, when it comes, or where it goes. Nothing refembles death fo much as fleep,

"Yet then our minds themselves from flumber keep.

"

"When from their fleshly bondage they are free,
Then what divine and future things they fee!
"Which makes it most apparent whence they
" are,

"And what they fhall hereafter be, declare."
This noble fpeech the dying Cyrus made.
Me, Scipio, fhall no argument perfuade,
Thy grandfire, and his brother, to whom Fame
Cave, from two conqueror'd parts o' th' world,

their name,

Nor thy great grandfire, nor thy father Paul,
Who fell at Canna against Hannibal;
Nor I (for 'tis permitted to the ag'd
To boast their actions) had so oft engag'd
In battles, and in pleadings, had we thought,
That only Fame our virtuous actions bought;
Twere better in foft pleasures and repole
Ingloriously our peaceful eyes to clofe:
Some high affurance hath poffeft my mind,
After my death an happier life to find.
Unless our fouls from the immortals came,
What end have we to feek immortal fame?
All virtuous fpirits fome fuch hope attends,
Therefore the wife his days with pleasure ends.
The foolish and fhort-fighted die with fear,
That they go no-where, or they know not where.
The wife and virtuous foul, with clearer eyes,
Before the parts, fome happy port defcries.

POEMS.

My friends, your fathers 1 fhall furely fee;
Nor only thofe I lov'd, or who lov'd me;
But fuch as before ours did end their days;
Of whom we hear, and read, and write their
praise.

This I believe: for were I on my way,
None fhould perfuade me to return, or ftay:
Should fome god tell me, that I should be born,
And cry again, his offer 1 would fcorn;
Afham'd, when I have ended well my race,
To be led back to my first starting-place.
And fince with life we are more griev'd than
joy'd,

We fhould be either fatisfy'd or cloy'd:
Yet will I not my length of days deplore,
As many wife and learn'd have done before;
Nor can I think fuch life in vain is lent,
Which for our country and our friends is spent.
Hence from an inn, not from my home I pass,
Since nature meant us here no dwelling-place.
Happy when I, from this turmoil fet free,
That peaceful and divine affenbly fee:
Not only thofe I nam'd I there fhall greet,
But my own gallant, virtuous Cato meet.
Nor did I weep, when I to ashes turn'd
His belov'd body, who fhould mine have burn'd.
I in my thoughts beheld his foul afcend,
Where his fixt hopes our interview attend:
Then ceafe to wonder that I feel no grief
From age, which is of my delights the chief.
My hopes, if this affurance hath deceiv'd,
(That I man's foul immortal have believ'd)
And if I err, no power fhall difpoffefs
My thoughts of that expected happiness.
Though fome minute philofophers pretend,
That with our days our pains and pleasures end.
If it be fo, I hold the fafer fide,

For none of them my error fhall deride.
And if hereafter no rewards appear,
Yet virtue hath itself rewarded here.
If those, who this opinion have defpis'd,
And their whole life to pleasure facrific'd,
Should feel their error, they, when undeceiv'd,
Too late will wish, that me they had believ'd.
If fouls no immortality obtain,
'Tis fit our bodies fhould be out of pain.
The fame uneafinefs which every thing
fo is age,
Gives to our nature, life muft alfo bring.
Good acts, if long, feem tedious;
Acting too long upon this earth her stage.
Thus much for age, to which when you arrive,
That joy to you, which it gives me, 'twill give,

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