taking the Degree of Doctor in Physic at Padua, in the Year 1664.



HEN as of old the earth's bold children strove,

With hills on hills, to scale the throne of Jove; Pallas and Mars stood by their sovereign's side, And their bright arms in his defence employ'd. While the wise Phæbus, Hermes, and the rest, Who joy in peace and love the Muses best, Defcending from their so distemper'd seat, Our groves and meadows chofe for their retreat. There first Apollo tried the various use Of herbs, and learn'd the virtue of their juice, And fram'd that art, to which who can pretend A juster title than our noble friend,

* This little poem was, among feveral others on the same occafion, printed by Dr. Rogers, with his inaugural exercise at Padua ; and afterwards in the same manner re-published by him at London, together with his Harveian oration before the college of phyficians, in the year 1682; while Mr. Waller was yet living.


Whom the like tempest drives from his abode,
And like employment entertains abroad?
This crowns him here ; and, in the bays so earn’d,
His country's honour is no less concern'd;
Since it appears, not all the English rave,
To ruin bent: fome ftudy how to save.
And as Hippocrates did once extend
His sacred art, whole cities to amend;
So we, brave friend, suppose that thy great skill,
Thy gentle mind, and fair example, will,
At thy return, reclaim our frantic isle,
Their spirits caļm; and peace again shall smile.

EDM. Waller, Anglus.
Patavii, typis Pauli Frambotti.

VIRGI L's Tomb, NAPLES 1741.

Tenues ignavo pollice chordas
Pulso ; Maroneique sedens in margine templi

Sumo animum, & magni tumulis adcanto magistri. Stat. I Came, great bard,

Came, great bard, to gaze upon thy shrine,

And o'er thy relicks wait th' inspiring Nine :
For sure, I said, where Maro's afhes Neep,
The weeping Muses must their vigils keep:



Still o'er their fav’rite's monument they mourn,
And with poetic trophies grace his urn:
Have placed the shield and martial trumpet here;
The shepherd's pipe, and rural honours there :
Fancy had deck'd the consecrated ground,
And scatter'd never-fading roses round.
And now my bold romantic thought aspires
To hear the echo of celestial lyres;
Then catch some found to bear delighted home,
And boast I learnt the verfe at Virgil's tomb;
Or stretch'd beneath thy myrtle’s fragrant shade,
With dreams extatic hov'ring o'er my head,
See forms august, and laureld ghosts ascend,
And with thyself, perhaps, the long procession end.

I came - but soon the phantoms disappear'd;
Far other scenes, than wanton Hope had rear'd;
No faery rites, no funeral pomp I found;
No trophied walls with wreaths of laurel round:
A mean unhonour'd ruin faintly show'd
The spot where once thy mausoleum stood :
Hardly the form remain’d; a nodding dome
O'ergrown with moss is now all Virgil's tomb.
'Twas such a scene as gave a kind relief
To memory, in sweetly-pensive grief:


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Gloomy, unpleasing images it wrought;
No musing, soft complacency of thought :
For Time had canker'd all, and worn away
Ev’n the last, mournful graces of decay:
Oblivion, hateful goddess, fate before,
And cover'd with her dusky wings the door :
No silver harps I heard, no Muse's voice,
But birds obscene in horrid notes rejoice:
Fancy recoil'd, and with his tinsel train,
Forsook the chearless scene; no more remain
The warm ambitious hopes of airy youth ;
Severe Reflection came, and frowning Truth:
Away each glitt'ring gay idea Aed,
And bade a melancholy train succeed,
That form’d, or seem'd to form, a mournful call
In feeble echoes mute’ring round the wall.

Seek not the Muses here! th' affrighted maids
Have fled Parthenope's polluted shades :
Her happy shores, the seats of joy and ease,
Their fav’rite mansions once, no longer please :
No longer, as of old, in transport loft,
The sisters rove along th' enchanted coast;
They turn with horror from each much-lov'd stream,
And loath the fields that were their darling theme :


The tuneful names themselves once fondly gave
To every swelling hill, and mossy cave,
So pleasing then, are only heard with sighs ;
And each sad echo bids their sorrow rise.

Yet Nature smiles, as when their Virgil sung,
Nor 'midst a fairer scene his lyre was strung;
Still bloom the sweets of his elysium here,
And the same charms in every grove appear.
But ah! in vain indulgent suns prevail ;
Health and delight in every balmy gale
Are wafted now in vain : small comfort bring
To weeping eyes the beauties of the spring.
To groaning Naves those fragrant meads belong,
Where Tully dictated, and Maro sung.
Long since, alas ! those golden days are flown,
Where here each Science wore its proper crown;
Pale Tyranny had laid their altars low,
And rent the laurel from the Muse's brow:
What wonder then 'midst such a scene to see
The Arts expire with bleeding Liberty?
Pensiye and fad, each fair angelic form
Droops, like the wearied dove beneath a storm :
Far other views the poet's thought engage,
Than the warm glories of th' Augustan age.


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