what
the delicacy of his frame could bear, might contribute to that ill
state of health which allayed the happiness of his married life,
during the greater part of it. In the latter end of the year 1714, his
weakness increased, and he seemed to labour under all the symptoms of
a consumption; which distemper, after it had confined him some months,
put a period to his most valuable life, at Hampstead, in 1715, when
he was but in the 28th year of his age. The exquisite grief and
affliction, which his amiable wife felt for the loss of so excellent a
husband, is not to be expressed.

She wrote a beautiful Elegy on his death, and continued to the last
moments of her life, to express the highest veneration and affection
for his memory, and a particular regard and esteem for his relations.
This Elegy of Mrs. Rowe, on the death of her much lamented husband, we
shall here insert.

An ELEGY, &c.

In what soft language shall my thoughts get free,
My dear Alexis, when I talk of thee?
Ye Muses, Graces, all ye gentle train,
Of weeping loves, O suit the pensive train!
But why should I implore your moving art?
'Tis but to speak the dictates of my heart;
And all that knew the charming youth will join,
Their friendly sighs, and pious tears to mine;
For all that knew his merit, must confess,
In grief for him, there can be no excess.
His soul was form'd to act each glorious part
Of life, unstained with vanity, or art,
No thought within his gen'rous mind had birth,
But what he might have own'd to Heav'n and Earth.
Practis'd by him, each virtue grew more bright,
And shone with more than its own native light.
Whatever noble warmth could recommend
The just, the active, and the constant friend,
Was all his own----But Oh! a dearer name,
And softer ties my endless sorrow claim.
Lost in despair, distracted, and forlorn,
The lover I, and tender husband mourn.
Whate'er to such superior worth was due,
Whate'er excess the fondest passion knew;
I felt for thee, dear youth; my joy, my care,
My pray'rs themselves were thine, and only where
Thou waft concern'd, my virtue was sincere.
When e'er I begg'd for blessings on thy head,
Nothing was cold or formal that I said;
My warmest vows to Heav'n were made for thee,
And love still mingled with my piety.
O thou wast all my glory, all my pride!
Thro' life's uncertain paths my constant guide;
Regardless of the world, to gain t