No more the Grecian Muse unrivall❜d reigns,
To Britain let the nations homage pay!
She boasts a Homer's fire in Milton's strains,
A Pindar's rapture in the lyre of GRAY.
LINES ON THE SAME.
'Tis done, 'tis done-the iron hand of pain,
With ruthless fury and corrosive force,
Racks ev'ry joint, and seizes every vein;
He sinks, he groans, he falls a lifeless corse.
Thus fades the flow'r, nipp'd by the frozen gale, Tho' once so sweet, so lovely to the eye; Thus the tall oaks, when boist'rous storms assail, Torn from the earth, a mighty ruin lie.
Ye sacred sisters of the plaintive verse,
Now let the stream of fond affection flow;
O pay your tribute o'er the slow-drawn hearse,
With all the manly dignity of woe.
Oft when the curfew tolls its parting knell, With solemn pause yon church-yard's gloom
While sorrow's sighs, and tears of pity tell,
How dearest friends on every side decay.
ON MRS. CLARKE, OF EPSOM,
WHO DIED APRIL 27, 1757.
Lo! where this silent marble weeps,
A friend, a wife, a mother sleeps:
A heart, within whose sacred cell,
The peaceful virtues lov'd to dwell.
Affection warm, and Faith sincere,
And soft Humanity were there.
In agony, in death resign'd,
She felt the wound she left behind.
Her infant image here below
Sits smiling on a father's woe:
Whom what awaits, while yet he strays
Along the lonely vale of days?
A pang, to secret sorrow dear;
A sigh; an unavailing tear;
Till time shall ev'ry grief remove,
With life, with memory, and with love.
ON THE EARL OF KILDARE.
WHO kill'd Kildare? Who dar'd Kildare to kill? Death kill'd Kildare, who dare kill whom he will.
ON WILLIAM SAVILLE.
No epitaph need make the just man fam'd ;
The good are prais'd when they are only nam'd.
TO-DAY he's drest in gold or silver bright,
Wrapp'd in a shroud before to-morrow night;
To-day he's feasting on delicious food,
To-morrow nought he eats can do him good;
To day he's nice, and scorns to feed on crumbs,
In a few days himself's a dish for worms;
To-day he's honour'd and in great esteem,
To-morrow not a beggar values him ;
To-day he rises from a velvet bed,
To-morrow he's in one that's made of lead;
To-day his house, tho' large, he thinks too small,
To-morrow can command no house at all;
To-day has twenty servants at his gate,
To-morrow scarcely one will deign to wait;
To day perfum'd, and sweet as is the rose,
To-morrow stinks in every body's nose;
To-day he's grand, majestic, all delight;
Ghastly and pale before to-morrow night:
Now that you've wrote, and said whate'er you can,
This is the best that you can say of man.
ST. STEPHENS, COLEMAN-STREET. OUR life is all but death; time that ensueth Is but the death of time that went before: Youth is the death of childhood; age, of youth, Die once to God; and then thou diest no more.
ON MRS. BOWES.
By Lady Mary Wortley Montague.
HAIL, happy bride! for thou art truly bless'd;
Three months of rapture crown'd with endless rest;
Merit like yours was heaven's peculiar care,
You lov'd-yet tasted happiness sincere:
To you the sweets of love were only shown,
The sure succeeding bitter dregs unknown.
You had not yet the fatal change deplor'd,
The tender lover for th' imperious lord;
Nor felt the pains that jealous fondness brings,
Nor wept that coldness from possession springs.
Above your sex distinguish'd in your fate,
You trusted yet experienc'd no deceit.
Soft were your hours, and wing'd with pleasure, flew:
No vain repentance gave a sigh to you;
And if superior bliss heav'n can bestow,
With fellow-angels you enjoy it now.
ON EDWARD COTTON, Esq.
Who died 28th Dec. 1682.
THIS worthy name of Squire Cotton
Can never dye, although his bones ly rotten;
Eased from all paines, removed far from strife,
A tender husband to his loving wife,
Sleeps near this place: he past thro' life to death,
And won the race, although he lost his breath:
Hee'th pay'd the debt which once we must pay all,
His virtues live, though after's funeral.
His surviving relict, for a good intent,
Hath caused to be raised this monument,
Vivit post funera virtus.
HARBORN, NEAR BIRMINGHAM.
ON THOMAS BIRCH,
Who died March 10, 1795.
AND SARAH HIS WIFE,
Who died Nov. 6, 1801.
A GOOD husband and father too,
Such a one as the world scarce ever knew,
What God to Adam did testify,
He was resolved his children should come nigh.
For pride and pleasure he did not allow,
But made them get their bread by the sweat of their brow;
A good wife, and mother, and neighbour too,
Such a one as the world scarce ever knew.
Agreabler couple could not be,
Whatever pleased he, always pleased she;
Every thing a good wife, and mother, and neighbour
ON JOHN TROTT, a bailiff.
HERE lies John Trott, by trade a bum;
When he dy'd, the devil cry'd,
Come, John, come.
ON A STAYMAKER.
ALIVE, Unnumber'd stays he made,
(He work'd industrious night and day ;)
E'en dead he still pursues his trade,
For here his bones will make a stay.
|