58 THE POEMS OF ANNE �Till You, who make, again repair the Breach. �For when to Shades of Death our Joys are fled, �When for a loss, like This, our Tears are shed, �None can revive the Heart, but who can raise the Dead. �But yet, my Muse, if thou hadst softer Verse �Than e'er bewail'd the melancholy Herse ; �If thou hadst Pow'r to dissipate the Gloom 70 �Inherent to the Solitary Tomb; �To rescue thence the Memory and Air �Of what we lately saw so Fresh, so Fair; �Then shou'd this Noble Youth thy Art engage �To shew the Beauties of his blooming Age, �The pleasing Light, that from his Eyes was cast, �Like hasty Beams, too Vigorous to last; �Where the warm Soul, as on the Confines, lay �Keady for Flight, and for Eternal Day. �Gently dispos'd his Nature shou'd be shown, 80 �And all the Mother's Sweetness made his Own. �The Father's Likeness was but faintly seen, �As ripen'd Fruits are figur'd by the Green. �Nor cou'd we hope, had he fulfill'd his Days, �He shou'd have reach'd WEYMOUTH'S unequal'd Praise. �Still One distinguish'd Plant each Lineage shews, �And all the rest beneath it's Stature grows. �Of Tulltfs Race but He possess'd the Tongue, �And none like Julius from the Ccesars sprung. �Next, in his harmless Sports he shou'd be drawn 90 �Urging his Courser, o'er the flow'ry Lawn; �Sprightly Himself, as the enliven'd Game, �Bold in the Chace, and full of gen'rous Flame; �Yet in the Palace, Tractable and Mild, �Perfect in all the Duties of a Child; �Which fond reflection pleases, whilst it pains, �Like penetrating Notes of sad Harmonious Strains. ��� �
