STOW

STOW GARDENS.

To the memory of

SIGNOR FIDO,

An Italian of good extraction,
Who came into England,

Not to bite us, like most of his countrymen,
But to gain an honest livelihood.
He hunted not after fame,
Yet acquired it.

Regardless of the praise of his friends,
But most sensible of their love.
Tho' he liv'd among the great,

He neither learnt nor flattered any vice.
He was no bigot,

Tho' he doubted of none of the thirty-nine articles:
And if to follow nature,

And to respect the laws of society,
Be philosophy,

He was a perfect philosopher,
A faithful friend,
An agreeable companion,
A loving husband,

And, tho' an Italian,

Was distinguished by a numerous offspring,
All which he liv'd to see take good courses.
In his old age he retir'd

To the house of a clergyman in the country,
Where he finish'd his earthly race.
And died an honour and an example to the
whole species.
Reader,

This stone is guiltless of flattery

For he, to whom it was inscrib'd, i

Was not a man,

But a

GREYHOUND.

ON A COUNTRY CLERGYMAN,
In imitation of Goldsmith.

A man he was, who own'd religion's sway;
Unlike the pastors of the present day.

No worldly gain was he e'er taught to prize;
His motive, virtue; and his aim, the skies.

With doctrines sound his hearers' souls he reach'd;
And, strange to tell, he practis'd what he preach'd."
When starving beggars for assistance pray'd,
His friendly arm their wretched wand'rings staid.
No, suppliant's pray'r e'er pass'd unheeded by;
Tear answer'd tear, and sigh succeeded sigh.
Altho' no lover of the strolling race,
As pity call'd, he heard each dubious case;
If false, dismiss'd them from his grateful fare,
Since misery only gain'd admittance there.
But if their story, told devoid of art,

Without a colouring reach'd the tender heart,
Then with what love, what eagerness, what zeal,
He strove their sorrows, and their griefs to heal!
Declar'd the means to bear affliction's rod,
And taught subjection to the will of God.
Whene'er his parish from their duty swerv'd,'
Their passions, vices, inclinations serv'd,
He with a care paternal urg'd reclaim,
In just proportion to his gen'rous aim ;
Argued from reason's, then from scripture's laws;
A great defender of a greater cause;

When sickness rag'd, from door to door he went,
His aid to all with equal pleasure lent;
With love benign administer'd relief,
And truly joy'd to mitigate their grief.

As to these duties, so to others true,
His every action like the notic'd few,
Free from ambition, envy, pride, or strife,
He pass'd in solitude-a godly life:
Till death approaching, led his soul away,
From dreary regions to eternal day.

ON A POET.

HERE lies a poet,-where's the great surprise!
Since all men know-a poet deals in lies.
His patrons know-they don't deserve his praise,
He knows he never meant it in his lays
Knows-where he promises he never pays.
Verse stands for sack-his knowledge-for the score;
Both out-he's gone-where poets went before: .
And at departing-let the waiters know,
He'd pay his reck'ning-in the realms-below.

HERE lies our little baby, Nancy,
By fate cut off in her infancy :
How happy would her parents be...
If innocent and young as she!
That on their tombs it could be told
They both had dy'd just ten days old,
Both Anns, and both of them short livers,
Both daughters of Thomas and Mary Rivers.

ON MRS. CATHARINE HALL,

Of Crutched Friars, esteemed the best Tambour Worker in Europe, who died August 7, 1773, the following Epitaph was written at her own de

sire.

ERE my work's done, my thread is cut;

My hands are cold, my eye-sight fails;
Stretch'd in my frame, I'm compass'd now
With worms, instead of lovely snails.*
The game of life is finish'd too,

Another now has ta'en my chair;
Griev'd there's no shuffling after death,
I'm gone, alas! the Lord knows where!
Reader, attend ; if you in works excel,
In bliss eternal you'll hereafter dwell:
And if you play your cards with caution here,
Secure to win, the trump you need not fear.

Underneath here,

Lies my sister dear,
As I lies here a top;
As we lies here,

Children dear,

Our parents we both forgot.

ON SIR EDWARD LYTTLETONS.

HERE lie three knights, grandfather, father, and son; Sir Edward, Sir Edward, and Sir Edward Lyttleton.

*The silk twist used in tambour work, called in the French Chenilles.

ON MR. THOMAS HAMMOND,

Parish Clerk of ASHFORD, in KENT, who was a good Man, and an excellent Back-gammon player: he was succeeded in office by a MR. TRICE.

By the chance of the die,

On his back here doth lie

Our most audible clerk MASTER HAMMOND;

Tho' he bore many men

"Till threescore and ten,

Yet at length he by death is back-gammon’d.
But hark! neighbours, hark
Here again comes the clerk;
By a hit very lucky and nice:

With death we're now even;
He just stepp'd up to heaven,
And is with us again in a Trice.

ON A TALLOW CHANDLER.

How might his Days end that made Weeks? or he
That could make Light, here laid in Darkness be?
Yet since his Weeks were spent, how could he chuse
But be depriv'd of Light, and his trade lose?
Yet dead the Chandler is, and sleeps in peace,
No wonder! long since melted with his Grease:
It seems that he did evil, for Day-light
He hated, and did rather wish the Night;

1

Yet came his Works to Light, and were, like gold,
Prov'd in the fire, but could not trial hold.
His Candle had an end, and Death's black night
Is an Extinguisher of all his Light.