His Name shall last to warm a distant Age,
Nor want th' Assistance of a Title-page;
For his bright Lines are by their Lustre known,
Ev'n  shines with Beauties not his own:
Unpolish'd Souls, like  or like mine,
Fill'd with Ideas that but dimly shine,
Read o'er the Charms of his instructive Pen,
And taste of Raptures never known till then.
Ill-nature listen'd, and approv'd the Song;
And blushing Envy check'd her burning Tongue:
Happy are those, tho' Grief their Hours attend,
Whom once he honour'd with the Name of Friend;
Whose pleasing Thoughts at least may ponder o'er
The smiling Days, that shall return no more:
Ev'n we condemn'd at distance to admire,
Bewail the Hopes that with our Guide expire:
Ah! who shall now our rustick Thoughts refine,
And to grave Sense and solid Learning join
Wit ever sparkling, and the Sweets of Rhyme?
Farewel, ye Themes, which none but he can sing,
And sylvan Scenes that wear eternal Spring;
Fair Nymphs, that in his fairer Paintings glow,
And ye smooth Lines that  taught to flow:
But hush, sad Muse, thy dull Complaint give o'er:
Hence sigh in secret, and his Loss deplore,
Who ne'er, O ne'er, shall grace our Regious more.