Parting with His Dear Brother, Mr. Ash Wyndham

MAke room, ye Pygmie Sons of Fame,
That with Antiquity would swell your name,
Proud before others, to have trod
The Paths of Virtue, and the Ways of God.
Thô last, I'll mend my pace,
Not they that set out first, must win the Race.
'Tis done! and now, methinks,
The stately Monument of Nisus sinks,
And all those Hero's dust to nothing shrinks.
'Tis done! I mount upon the Wings of Love,
And through the Sky, by the Twin-Stars I move;
From whence those little Atoms I review,
That once with Titles fill'd the World,
Thousands into a crowded Pitcher hurl'd,
Wet with the Tears of Moisture and of Dew.

'Tis done! and all the Field's my own,
But still what shall I do to be for ever known?
How shall I keep up this my flight,
And prove 'tis not Presumption, but my Right?
'Tis done! and the unquestionable Heir,
Dear Corydon, will to my Title swear,
Ev'n He, whose name had spread from Pole to Pole,
Great and diffusive as his Soul:
Had Fame, with all her hundred Tongues, but breath
To sound him loud enough, till after death,
Whose Name was made to comprehend
All the Virtues of a Friend:
Too great for words, whose Soul needs no translation, Nature's one only work of Supererogation.

Oh! I could almost with that Fate would try
How unconcern'd for thee I durst to die;
How at the fatal Altar I could smile,
Griev'd only at thy absence for a while.
Proud as a Harbinger, to go before
To chuse some melancholy Grove,
Where I together with my thoughts might rove,
And thy auspicious Name implore.
Yet if not sentenc'd to depart,
How gladly could I watch the Guardian of my heart!
Nor yet by day, nor yet by night,
Let thee steal one short moment from my sight.
How with thy absence can I be content,
When every minute without thee, is mis-spent?
But ah! the Fruit's forbidden for a time,
And who the Tree dares climb?
Now were not Jealousie a sin,
I could once more, once, and eternally begin
Thy Faith, thy Promise to secure,
Not in a thousand Oaths secure.

Pardon (Dear Corydon!) too zealous Love,
That fain would all things prove;
Afraid on slender grounds to trust,
Or can a Friend be over just?
For thô my faultring fears betray
Suspicious doubts, yet I must still believe
'T's impossible for Corydon to deceive;
Whose heart's Truth's Hieroglyphick well exprest,
Presiding in the Temple of your Breast.
Where on that Altar I must humbly lay
This Offering, with my consecrated Vow,
My Sibyl's Golden Bough.
I swear by your own self, and truth by you,
That to the self-same Oath I will be true:
Nor need I tell you, for you needs must know,
I love you above all things here below.
By Heaven once more, and the Almighty Powers,
Intirely and eternally I'm Yours,