XII.
Intended for Sir ISAAC NEWTON, ,

In Westminster-Abbey.
ISA ACUS NEWTONUS:

Quem Immortalem
Teftantur Tempus, Natura, Cælum:

Mortalem

Hoc marmor fatetur.
Nature and Nature's Laws lay hid in Night:
God said, Let Newton be! and all was Light.

XIII.
On Dr. FRANCIS ATTERBURY,

Bishop of Rochefter.
Who died in Exile at Paris, 1732.
[His only Daughter having expired in his arms, im-

mediately after the arrived in France to see him.]

DIALOG U E.

SHE.

YE

ES, we have liv'd-one pang, and then we part !

May Heaven, dear Father ! now have all thy Heart.
Yet ah! how once we lov’d, remember still,
Till you are duft like me.

HE.

HE.

Dear Shade! I will:
Then mix this duft with thine-O spotless Ghost!".
O more than Fortune, Friends, or Country lost!
Is there on Earth, one care, one with beside ?
Yes-SAVE MY COUNTRY, Heaven,

-He said, and dy'd.

XIV.
On EDMOND Duke of BUCKINGHAM,
Who died in the Nineteenth Year of his

Age, 1735
F modest Youth, with cool Reflection crown'd,
I

And every opening Virtue blooming round,
Could save a Parent's justest Pride from fate,
Or add one Patriot to a sinking state;
This weeping marble had not ask'd thy Tear,
Or sadly told, how many hopes lie here!
The living Virtue now had shone approv'd,
The Senate heard him, and his Country lov'd.
Yet softer Honours, and less noisy Fame
Attend the shade of gentle BUCKINGHAM:
In whom a Race, for Courage fam’d and Art,
Ends in the milder Merit of the rt;
And, Chiefs or Sages long to Britain given,
Pays the last Tribute of a Saint to Heaven.

XV. For

XV.

For One who would not be buried in

Westminster-Abbey.

HEROES and KINGS! your distance keeps

In peace
let one poor

Poet

Who never flatter'd Folks like you :
Let Horace blush, and Virgil too.

Another, on the same.
UNDER this Marble

, or under this Sill,
Or under this Turf, or e'en what they will;
Whatever an Heir, or a Friend in his stead,
Or any good creature fall lay o'er my head,
Lies one who ne'er car’d, and still cares not a pin
What they said, or may say of the Mortal within :
But who, living and dying, serene still and free,
Trusts in God, that as well as he was, he shall be.

XVI. Lord CONINGSBY'S EPITAPH*.

H

ERE lies Lord Coningsby—be civil;

The rest God knows-so does the Devil. * This Epitaph, originally written on Picus Mirandula, is applied to F. Chartres, and printed among

the works of Swift. See Hawkesworth edition, vol. vi. S.

On

On BUTLER's MONUMENT.

Perhaps by Mr. POPE *.

R

ESPECT to Dryden, Sheffield justly pay'd,

And noble Villers honour'd Cowley's shade:
But whence this Barber?-that a name fo mean
Should, join'd with Butler's, on a tomb be seen:
This pyramid would better far proclaim,
To future ages humbler Settle's name :
Poet and

patron

then had been well pair'd, The city printer, and the city bard.

* Mr. Pope, in one of the prints from Scheemaker's monument of Shakespeare in Westminster-Abbey, has sufficiently shewn his contempt of Alderman Barber, by the following couplet, which is substituted in the place of “ The cloud-capt towers, &c.”'

“ Thus Britain lov'd me; and preserv'd my fame, « Clear from a Barber's or a Benson's name."

A. Pope. Pope might probably have suppreffed his fatire on the Alderman,

because he was one of Swift's acquaintances and correspondents; though in the 4th Book of the Dunciad he has an anonymous stroke at him :

“ So by each bard an Alderman fhall fit,
“ A heavy Lord Thall hang at every wit."

S.

То

To Lady MARY WORTLEY MONTAGUE ..

I.
IN
N beauty, or wit,

No mortal as yet
To question your empire has dar'd ;

But men of discerning

Have thought that in learning,
To yield to a lady was hard.

II.
Impertinent schools,

With musty dull rules,
Have reading to females deny'd:

So papists refuse

The Bible to use,
Lest flocks should be wise as their guide.

III.
'Twas a woman at first,

(Indeed she was curft)
In knowledge that tasted delight,

* This panegyric on Lady Mary Wortley Montague might have been suppressed by Mr. Pope, on account of her having satirized him in her verses to the imitator of Horace; which abuse he returned in the first Satire of the second book of Horace. “ From furious Sappho, scarce a milder fate, P-'d by her love, or libeld by her hate." S.

And