On the Death of My Worthy Friend Mr. John Oldham

Undoubtedly 'tis thy peculiar fate,
Ah miserable Astragon!
Thou art condemn'd alone
To bear the burthen of a wretched life,
Still in this howling wilderness to roam,
Whilst all thy bosom friends unkindly go,
And leave thee to lament them here below.
Thy dear Alexis wouldn't stay,
Joy of thy life, and pleasure of thine eyes,
Dear Alexis went away,
With an invincible surprise;
Th' angelic youth early dislik'd this state,
And innocently yielded to his fate;
Never did soul of a celestial birth
Inform a purer piece of earth:
O! that 'twere not in vain,
To wish what's past might be retriev'd again!
Thy dotage, thy Alexis then
Had answer'd all thy vows and prayers,
And crown'd with pregnant joys thy silver hairs,
Lov'd to this day amongst the living sons of men.

And thou, my friend, hast left me too,
Menalcas! poor Menalcas! even thou!
Of whom so loudly Fame has spoke
In the records of her eternal book,
Whose disregarded worth ages to come
Shall wail with indignation o'er thy tomb.
Worthy wert thou to live, as long as Vice
Should need a satire, that the frantic age
Might tremble at the lash of thy poetic rage.
Th' untutor'd world in after times
May live uncensur'd for their crimes,
Freed from the dreads of thy reforming pen,
Turn to old Chaos once again.
Of all th' instructive bards, whose more than Theban lyre,
Could salvage souls with manly thoughts inspire,
Menalcas worthy was to live:
Tell me, ye mournful swains,
Say you his fellow-shepherds that survive,
Has my ador'd Menalcas left behind
On all these pensive plains
A gentler shepherd with a braver mind?
Which of you all did more majestic show,
Or wore the garland on a sweeter brow?

But wayward Astragon resolves no more
The death of his Menalcas to deplore.
The place to which he wisely is withdrawn
Is altogether blest.
There, no clouds o'erwhelm his breast,
No midnight cares shall break his rest,
For all is everlasting cheerful dawn.
The Poets' charming bliss,
Perfect ease and sweet recess,
There shall he long possess.
The treacherous world no more shall him deceive,
Of hope and fortune he has taken leave;
And now in mighty triumph does he reign
O'er the unthinking rabble's spite
(His head adorn'd with beams of light)
And the dull wealthy fool's disdain.
Thrice happy he, that dies the Muses' friend;
He needs no obelisk, no pyramid
His sacred dust to hide,
He needs not for his memory to provide,
For well he knows his praise can never end.