ON AN IMPORTUNATE TAILOR.

HERE lies W. W.

Who never more will trouble you, trouble you.

IN BIDEFORD CHURCH, DEVON.

Ir to have been an eminently good and useful man in his place and time, be a just claim to perpetual' remembrance, the subject of the following epitaph was peculiarly entitled to this frail kind of immortality.

He was born at Bideford, of a very respectable and ancient family. In his youth he experienced some very remarkable deliverances from imminent dangers, which seemed to indicate him born for the good of his fellow creatures. He fell, at one time, from a craggy precipice, of a tremendous height, without hurt; and another time, an arrow struck him forcibly on the forehead, without any other con sequence than leaving a mark, which remained to his death.

Though he carried on a very extensive foreign trade, and had many ships on the sea at once, it was remarked that he never lost one.

The plague breaking out in the town, in the year 1646, the mayor ran away, and Mr. Strange, with amazing boldness and philanthropy, took the critical office on himself, to the great comfort of the inhabitants, in their grievous distress. He visited every infected house, took care to supply the needy with food and physic, and saw the dead buried with deeency. When thus, by his prudent management,

the town was cleared of this dreadful enemy, Mr. Strange fell the last victim to its rage.

The following epitaph is engraved on a fair monument, beneath the bust of this excellent man, who appears to have been the Howard of his day.

Sacred to the Memory of

MR. JOHN STRANGE,

Some time merchant of this town, whose sweetness of disposition, affability in discourse, courteousness in carriage, uprightness in commerce, fidelity in magis tracy, largeness of heart, and liberality of hand to the needy, bountifulness in hospitality, humility in the flow, equability in the ebb, of outward things, and sincere love to God, his Gospel, and Saints; having lived beloved, and deservedly honoured, after the pilgrimage of fifty-six years ended, died, and, not without great cause, much lamented, August, Anno Dom. 1646, in his fourth and fatal mayoralty: whose better part returning whence it came, he left unto the world the pretious odour of a good name, and the choyce example of a sweet conversation, to gether with his earthly tabernacle, put off, and hereby interred, till, being refined, and raised a glori ous bodie, the more glorious soul returns to take possession of it, and both be rapt up to enjoy that bliss that knows neither tearme nor tedium,

J. N. 1678.

SEEK not to learn who underneath doth lie.
Learn something more important;-learn to die.

TO THE MEMORY OF

THE HON. EDWARD JAMES ELIOT.

WEEP'ST thou, vain Muse, when blood-stain'd chiefs expire?

Mourn'st thou when purple tyrants quit the earth? Nor wakes thy fond regret, nor breathes thy lyre One pensive strain to mild departed worth? Yes-Friendship's sigh, and Virtue's artless tear, Eliot, on thy untimely fate attend ;

With heartfelt sympathy, with grief sincere,

Like them, the Muse shall mourn for Virtue's friend. But, ah! what verse can paint the genuine grace, The modest dignity, unform'd by art;

The soft complaisance that illum'd thy face,

And flow'd spontaneous from thy gentle heart? That face, which still express'd, in manhood's prime, The native candour of ingenuous youth; That faithful heart, which, unsubdu'd by time, Still fondly cherish'd pure, unshaken truth. Hence, tyrant Death! nor boast thy baleful pow'r, To rend the sacred bands of virtuous love; His Harriet lost, his soul, from that sad hour, Dwelt with her spirit in the realms above. Blest pair!-no more, ye friends, ye parents, weep! Let brighter thoughts your sorrowing minds employ: Trust the prophetic Muse, " They do not sleep :" Unsullied Virtue claims immortal joy.

HERE lies the man whose horse did gaine
The bell, in race, on Salisbury plaine.
Reader, I know not whether needs it,
You or your horse rather to read it.

TUNBRIDGE.

ANNE ELLIOT.

N

Born 16th Nov. 1743.-Died 30th May, 1769. Or matchless form, adorn'd with wit refin'd, A feeling heart, and an enlighten'd mind ;' Of softest manners, beauty's rarest bloom; Here Elliot lies, and moulders in her tomb. O, blest with genius! early snatch'd away! The Muse, that joyful mark'd thy op'ning ray, Now, sad reverse, attends thy mournful bier, And o'er thy relics sheds the gushing tear! Here Fancy oft the hallow'd mould shall tread, ⠀⠀ Recal thee living, and lament thee dead ; Here Friendship oft shall sigh, till life be o'er, And Death shall bid thy image charm no more !

BENEATH this cold stone lies a son of the Earth;
His story is short, though we date from his birth
His mind was as gross as his body was big;
He drank like a fish, and he ate like a pig.
No cares of religion, of wedlock, or state,
Did e'er, for a moment, encumber John's pate:
He sat, or he walk'd, but his walk was but creeping,
And he rose from his bed-when quite tir'd of sleep-
ing.

Without foe, without friend, unnotic'd he died;
Not a single soul laugh'd, not a single soul cried.
Like his four-footed namesake, he dearly lov'd earth,
So the sexton has cover'd his body with turf.

AT ST. PETER'S, IN THE ISLE OF THANET.

ON A YOUNG CLERGYMAN.
By Mr. Smart.

WAS rhet'ric on the lips of Sorrow hung,
Or could Affliction lend the heart a tongue,
Then should my soul, in noble anguish free,
Do glorious justice to her grief and thee.
But, ah! when loaded with a weight of woe,
E'en Nature, blessed Nature, is our foe.
When we should praise, we sympathetic groan,
For sad mortality is all our own.

Yet, but a word; as lowly as he lies,
He spurns all empires, and asserts the skies.
Blush, Power! he had no int'rest here below;
Blush, Malice! that he died without a foe;
The universal friend, so form'd t'engage,
Was far too precious for the world and age.
Years were deny'd, for (such his worth and truth)
Kind Heav'n has call'd him to eternal youth.

ON MR. WALMESLEY.

Who died Oct. 30, 1791.

O! THAT my numbers like my tears could flow,
To paint thy worth, transcendent as my woe!
Then should thy name to future times descend,
The widow's refuge, and the orphan's friend.
Where opens now the hospitable door?
Where can it open? Walmesley is no more!”