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ELEGY to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady Pope. 145
Elegy written in a Country Church-Yard
Elegy on the untimely Death of a certain Learned Ac-
Elegy in Memory of a Private Family Shenstone. 158
Elegy describing the sorrow of an ingenuousMind on the
Melancholy Event of a Licentious Amour Shenstone. 162
A Father's Advice to a Son, an Elegy
The Tomb of Shakspeare, an Elegy
Funeral of the Lady of the Manor
Funeral of Isaac Ashford, a Virtuous Peasant Crabbe. 209
Monody to the Memory of Lady Lyttelton Ld. Lyttelton. 212
Monody written near Stratford-upon-Avon T.Warton. 222
Monody to the Memory of Garrick R. B. Sheridan. 223
On the Death of Lady Anson, addressed to her Father.
Melancholy, an Ode occasioned by the
On the Death of a Young Lady
On the Death of his Mother
To the Memory of Sir Isaac Newton
Dirge in Cymbeline
J. Warton. 257
On the Death of his Father
Epitaph on the Honourable Simon Harcourt
Epitaph on James Craggs, Esq.
Epitaph on the Monument of the Right Honourable R.
Digby, and of his Sister Mary Epitaph on Sir Godfrey Kneller Epitaph on General Henry Withers Epitaph on Elijah Fenton
Epitaph on Mr. Gay
Epitaph on Sir Isaac Newton
Epitaph on Dr. Francis Atterbury
Another on the Same
Death of a
Epitaph on Edmund Duke of Buckingham
Epitaph for One who would not be buried in West
WHAT beck'ning ghost along the moon-light shade
Why bade ye else, ye powers! her soul aspire Above the vulgar flight of low desire! Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes, The glorious fault of angels and of gods;
Thence to their images on earth it flows,
From these, perhaps, (ere Nature bade her die)
And separate from their kindred dregs below;
But thou, false guardian of a charge too good,
Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall:
What can atone (oh, ever-injur’d shade !) Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid?
No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear,
To midnight dances, and the public show? What though no weeping loves thy ashes grace, Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face?
What though no sacred earth allow thee room, Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb? Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be dress'd, And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast; There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow, There the first roses of the year shall blow; While angels with their silver wings o'ershade The ground, now sacred by thy relics made.
So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,
Poets themselves must fall like those they sung;