Struck with a Passion for unhappy Rowe,
To whom so many finish'd Scenes we owe,
I paid my Tribute to his mighty Name,
A Stranger to his Person--but by Fame:
The Man, but not the Author was unknown,
Oft have I made his well--wrought Verse my own;
Oft have I wept his dying Hero's Cause,
And shook the ecchoing Dome with loud Applause:
From hence alone my grateful Sorrows rise,
Hence the prompt Tears o'erflow my swelling Eyes;
But double Pangs thy mournful Bosom rend,
I lose the Poet only, you the Friend.
You knew the secret Virtues of his Heart,
How void it was of every treacherous Art;
Search'd the vast hidden Treasures of his Mind,
And weep in him the Loss to all Mankind.

Garth follow'd soon, from the unsparing Grave,
Not his own Art his mortal Life could save!
Two Bards at once the Tyrant swept away,
To feed the Worm, and mix with vulgar Clay;
Nor yet content, unbounded in his Rage,
Of Thee too he attempts to rob the Age.
Insulting Death! oh stop thy savage Hand,
Reverse, tremendous Power, the rash Command;
Already you have given us too much Grief,
Be kind at last, and minister Relief;
Stop our forboding Tears, asswage our Pain,
And give Centlivre back to Health again.