*My grandfather Mr. Thomas Watts had such acquaintance with the mathematics, painting, music, and poesy, &c. as gave him considerable esteem among his contemporaries. He was commander of a ship of war, 1656, and by blowing up of the ship in the Dutch war he was drowned in his youth.

A Funeral Poem on the Death of Thomas Gunston, Esq. Presented to the Right Honourable the Lady Abney, Lady Mayoress of London. MADAM,

JULY, 1701.

"HADI been a common mourner at the funeral of the dear gentleman deceased, I should have laboured after more of art in the following composition, to supply the defect of nature, and to feign a sorrow; but the uncommon condescension of his friendship to me, the inward esteem I pay his memory, and the vast and tender sense I have of the loss, make all the methods of art needless, whilst natural grief supplies more than all.

"I had resolved indeed to lament in sighs and silence, and frequently checked the too forward muse: but the importunity was not to be resisted; long lines of sorrow flowed in upon me ere I was aware, whilst I took many a solitary walk in the garden adjoining to his seat at Newington; nor could I free myself from the crowd of melancholy ideas. Your ladyship will find throughout the poem, that the fair and unfinished building which he had just raised for himself, gave almost all the turns of mourning to my thoughts; for I pursue no other topics of clegy than what my passion and my senses led me to.

"The poem roves, as my eyes and grief did, from one part of the fabric to the other: It rises from the foundation, salutes the walls, the doors, and the windows, drops a tear upon the roof, and climbs the turret, that pleasant retreat, where I promised myself many sweet hours of his conversation; there my song wanders amongst the delightful subjects divine and moral, which used to entertain onr happy leisure; and thence descends to the fields and the shady walks, where I so often enjoyed his pleasing discourse; my sorrows diffuse themselves there without a limit; I had quite forgotten all scheme and method of writing, till I correct myself, and rise to the turret again to lament that desolate seat. Now if the critics laugh at the folly of the muse for taking too much notice of the golden ball, let them consider that the meanest thing that belonged to so valuable a person still gave some fresh and doleful reflections: And I transcribe nature without rule, and represent friendship in a mourning dress, abandoned to deepest sorrow, and with a negligence becoming woe unfeigned.

"Had I designed a complete elegy, Madam,on your dearest brother, and intended it for public view, I should have followed the usual forms of poetry, so far, at least, as to spend some pages in the character and praises of the deceased, and thence have taken occasion to call mankind to complain aloud of the universal and unspeakable loss: But I wrote merely for myself as a friend of the dead, and to ease my full soul by breathing out my own complaints; I knew his character and virtues so well, that there was no need to mention them while I talked only with myself; for the image of them was ever present with me, which kept the pain at the heart intense and lively, and my tears flowing with my verse.

"Perhaps your ladyship will expect some divine thoughts and sacred medita tions, mingled with a subject so solemn as this is: Had I formed a design of offering it to your hands, I had composed a more Christian poem; but it was grief purely natural, for a death so surprising, that drew all the strokes of it, and therefore my reflections are chiefly of a moral strain. Such as it is, your ladyship requires a copy of it; but let it not touch your soul too tenderly, nor renew your own mournings. Receive it, Madam, as an offering of love and tears at the tomb of a departed friend, and let it abide with you as a witness of that affectionate respect and honour that I bore him; all which, as your ladyship's most rightful due, both by merit and by succession, is now humbly offered, by,

Madam,

Your ladyship's most hearty
And obedient servant,
I. WATTS.

To the dear Memory of my honoured Friend, Thomas Gunston, Esq.
Who died November 11,1700, when he had just finished his Seat at Newington.
OF blasted hopes, and of short withering joys,
Sing, heav'nly muse. Try thine etherial voice
In funeral numbers and a doleful song ;
Gunston, the just, the generous aud the young,
Gunston, the friend, is dead, O empty name
Of earthly bliss! 'tis all an airy dream,
All a vain thought! Our soaring fancies rise
On treach'rous wings, and hopes that touch the skies
Drag but a longer ruin thro' the downward air,
And plunge the falling joys still deeper in despair.

How did our souls stand flatter'd and prepar'd
To shout him welcome to the seat he rear'd!
There the dear man should see his hopes complete,
Smiling, and tasting ev'ry lawful sweet

That peace and plenty brings, while num'rous years
Circling delightful, play'd around the spheres:
Revolving suns should still renew his strength,
And draw th' uncommon thread to an unusual length,
But hasty fate thrusts her dread shears between,
Cuts the young life off, and shuts up the scene:
Thus airy pleasure dances in our eyes,
And spreads false images in fair disguise,
T'allure our souls, till just within our arms
The vision dies, and all the painted charms
Flee quick away from the pursuing sight,

"Till they are lost in shades, and mingle with the night.
Muse, stretch thy wings, and thy sad journey bead
To the fair Fabric that thy dying friend

Built, nameless: 'twill suggest a thousand things
Mournful and soft as my Urania sings.

How did he lay the deep foundation strong,
Marking the bounds, and rear the walls along
Solid and lasting; there a numerous train
Of happy Gunstons might in pleasure reign,
While nations perish, and long ages run,
Nations unborn, and ages unbegun:
Not time itself should waste the blest estate,
Nor the tenth race rebuild the ancient seat.
How fond our fancies are! the founder dies
Childless; his sisters weep and close his eyes,
And wait upon his hearse with never-ceasing cries.
Lofty and slow it moves to meet the tomb,
While weighty sorrow nods on ev'ry plume;
A thousand groans bis dear remains convey

To his cold lodging in a bed of elay,

His country's sacred tears well-watering all the way.
See the dull wheels roll on the sable load;

But no dear son to tread the mournful road,

And fondly kind drop his young sorrows there,
The father's urn bedewing with a filial tear.
O had he left us one behind, to play
Wanton about the painted hall, and say,
This was my father's," with impatient joy
In my fond arms I'd clasp the smiling boy,
And call him my young friend: but awful fate,
Design'd the mighty stroke as lasting as 'twas great,

And must this building then, this costly frame,
Stand here for strangers?, must some unknown name
Possess these rooms, the labours of my friend?!
Why were these walls rais'd for this hapless end?
Why these apartments all adorn'd so gay?
Why his rich fancy lavish'd thus away!
Muse, view the paintings, how the hov'ring light
Plays o'er the colours in a wanton flight,
And mingled shades wrought in by soft degrees,
Give a sweet foil to all the charming piece;
But night, eternal night, hangs black around
The dismal chambers of the hollow ground,
And solid shades unmingled round his bed
Stand hideous: Earthly fogs embrace his head,
And noisome vapours glide along his face
Rising perpetual. Muse, forsake the place,
Flee the raw damps of the unwholesome clay,
Look to his airy spacious hall, and say,
"How has he chang'd it for a lonesome cave,
"Confin'd and crowded in a narrow grave."

Th' unhappy house looks desolate and mourns,
And ev'ry door groans doleful as it turns ;
The pillars languish; and each lofty wall
Stately in grief, laments the master's fall,
In drops of briny dew; the fabric bears
His faint resemblance, and renews my tears.
Solid and square it rises from below:
A noble air without a gaudy show
Reigns thro' the model, and adorns the whole,
Manly and plain. Such was the builder's soul.
O how I love to view the stately frame,
That dear memorial of the best-lov'd name!
Then could I wish for some prodigious cave
Vast as his seat, and silent as his grave;
Where the tall shades stretch to the hideous roof,
Forbid the day, and guard the sun-beams off;
Thither, my willing feet, should ye be drawn
At the grey twilight, and the early dawn.
There sweetly sad should my soft minutes roll,
Numb'ring the sorrows of my drooping soul.
But these are airy thoughts: substantial grief
Grows by these objects that should yield relief;
Fond of my woes I heave my eyes around,
My grief from ev'ry prospect courts a wound;
Views the green gardens, views the smiling skies.
Still my heart sinks, and still my cares arise;
My wand'ring feet round the fair mansion rove,
And there to soothe my sorrows I indulge my love.

Oft have I laid the awful Calvin by,
And the sweet Cowley, with impatient eye
To see those walls, pay the sad visit there,
And drop the tribute of an hourly tear :
Still I behold some melancholy scene,

With many a pensive thought, and many a sigh between.
Two days ago we took the evening air,

I, and my grief, and my Urania there;

Say, my Urania, how the western sun

Broke from black clouds, and in full glory shone,