As Mr. Rowe had not a robuſt conſtitution, ſo an intenſe application to ſtudy, beyond what the delicacy of his frame could bear, might contribute to that ill ſtate of health which allayed the happineſs of his married life, during the greater part of it. In the latter end of the year 1714, his weakneſs encreaſed, and he ſeemed to labour under all the ſymptoms of a conſumption; which diſtemper, after it had confined him ſome months, put a period to his moſt valuable life, at Hampſtead, in 1715, when he was but in the 28th year of his age. The exquiſite grief and affliction, which his amiable wife felt for the loſs of ſo excellent a huſband, is not to be expreſſed.
She wrote a beautiful Elegy on his death, and continued to the laſt moments of her life, to expreſs the higheſt veneration and affection for his memory, and a particular regard and eſteem for his relations. This Elegy of Mrs. Rowe, on the death of her much lamented huſband, we ſhall here inſert.
An ELEGY, &c.
In what ſoft language ſhall my thoughts get free,
My dear Alexis, when I talk of thee?
Ye Muſes, Graces, all ye gentle train,
Of weeping loves, O ſuit the penſive ſtrain!
But why ſhould I implore your moving art?
’Tis but to ſpeak the dictates of my heart;
And all that knew the charming youth will join,
Their friendly ſighs, and pious tears to mine;
For all that knew his merit, muſt confeſs,
In grief for him, there can be no exceſs.
His ſoul was form’d to act each glorious part
Of life, unſtained with vanity, or art,
No thought within his gen’rous mind had birth,
But what he might have own’d to Heav’n and Earth.
