IN THE CATHEDRAL CHURCH-YARD, DURHAM.

ON ROBERT DODSLEY,

An eminent Bookseller.

IF

BY JOSEPH SPENCE.

you have any respect

For uncommon industry and merit,
Regard this place!

In which are interred the remains of
MR. ROBERT Dodsley,

Who, as an author, rais'd himself Much above what could have been expected From one in his rank of life:

And without a learned education.
And who, as a man, was scarce
Exceeded by any, in integrity of heart
And purity of manners and conversation.
He left this life for a better,
September 23d, 1764,
In the 61st year of his age.

IN CHATHAM CHURCH-YARD.

ON MRS. ANN FARLAM,

Who died by the bite of her favourite Lap Dog. DEATH, the last end of all, is fix'd, is sure, But manifold the means that end procure. My little favourite cur, my guiltless friend, Thy tooth with frenzy struck, induc'd my end. Be ready, mortals, for the solemn call;

No matter what the means by which you fall.

DR. SMOLLETT.

Translation of a Latin Inscription on a Tuscan Column, erected to the memory of Dr. Smollett, near Dumbarton, in the Highlands of Scotland.

STOP Traveller!

If elegance of taste and wit, if fertility of genius, If a masterly art in delineating manners, Have ever been the objects of your admiration, Pause a little over the memory of

TOBIAS SMOLLETT, M.D.

With those virtues, which, in the man and citizen,
You may both praise and imitate,
He was eminently distinguished:
As a writer, he discovered an extensive
Knowledge in literature, and

A felicity in composition
Peculiar to himself:

Having spent a life in these elegant studies,
And secured the applause of posterity,
He was snatched from this world,
By a severe distemper,
In the 51st year of his age:

How far, alas! from his native Country!
Near Leghorn, in Italy, he lies interred:
In memory of his many and distinguished virtues
This column,

Vain pledge, alas! of affection,
Was erected on the banks of the Leven,
The place of his nativity,

And subject of his latest poetry, by
James Smollett, of Bonhill, his Cousin-german,
Who ought rather to have received
This last tribute from him.

ON THE EARL OF STRAFFORD.

By John Cleveland.

HERE lies wise and valiant dust,
Huddled up 'twixt fit and just;
STRAFFORD, who was hurried hence,
'Twixt treason and convenience:
He spent his time here in a mist,
A Papist, yet a Calvinist.

His prince's nearest joy and grief
He had, yet wanted all relief;
The prop and ruin of the state,
The people's violent love and hate,
One in the extremes lov'd and abhorr'd.
Riddles lie here, and in a word,
Here lies blood! and let it lie
Speechless still, and never cry.

ALDERSGATE, LONDON.

NOT far remote lies a lamented fair,
Whom heaven had fashion'd with peculiar care:
For sense distinguish'd, and esteem'd for truth,
And ev'ry winning ornament of youth.
Yet liv'd she free from envy, and admir'd,
But oh! too soon she from the world retir'd.
Filial affection rose in her so high,

No sage can censure the parental sigh:
The gen'rous plant had shone in beauty's pride;
Gaily it bloom'd, but in the blooming dy'd:
Learn from this marble, what thou valu'st most,
And set'st thy heart upon, may soon be lost.

ON MR. AIKMAN AND HIS SON.

By D. Mallet.

DEAR to the wise and good, disprais'd by none,
Here sleep in peace the father and the son.
By virtue as by nature close ally'd,

The painter's genius, but without the pride;
Worth unambitious, Wit afraid to shine,
Honour's clear light, and Friendship's warmth
divine :

The son fair rising knew too short a date;
But, oh! how more severe a parent's fate!
He saw him torn untimely from his side,
Felt all a father's anguish, wept, and dy'd.

ON JOHN GRANTHAM,

Who died 23d July, 1751, aged 76.
AN honest man lies buried here,
A worthy neighbour, friend sincere,
A tender husband, father dear.
This character is strictly true:
Not only read,-but imitate it too.

EPITAPH

IN VARIOUS COUNTRY CHURCH-YARDS.

A PALE Consumption gave the fatal blow,
The stroke was certain, but th' effect was slow:
With wasting pain, Death found me long opprest,
Pity'd my sighs, and kindly brought me rest.

ON SHADRACH JOHNSON,

Who kept the Wheat Sheaf at Bedford, and had twenty-four children by his first wife, and eight by his second.

SHADRACH lies here, who made both sexes happy, The women with love-toys, the men with nappy.

ON A COUNTRY CURATE.

HERE rests his head upon the lap of earth,
A curate poor, to stalls and tythes unknown;
No bishop smil'd upon his humble birth,

No minister e'er mark'd him for his own.

Bread was his only food, his drink the brook;
So small a salary did his rector send :

He left his laundress all he had a book;

He found in Death-'twas all he wish'd—a friend.

No longer seek his wardrobe to disclose,

Nor draw his breeches from their darksome cell; There, like their master, let them find repose, Nor dread the horrors of a taylor's hell.

ON A BUTCHER.

By this inscription be it understood,
My occupation was in shedding blood;
But now I rest, from sin and sorrow free,

Thro' Christ, my Lord, who shed his blood for me.