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Just of thy word, in every thought sincere,
Who knew no wish but what the world might hear
Of softest manners, unaffected mind,
Lover of peace, and friend of human-kind :
Go, live! for heaven's eternal year is thine,
Go, and exalt thy moral to divine!

And thou, bless'd maid! attendant on his doom,
Pensive hast follow'd to the silent tomb,
Steer'd the same course to the same quiet shore,
Not parted .ong, and now to part no more!
Go then, where only bliss sincere is known!
Go, where to love and to enjoy are one!

Yet, take these tears, mortality's relief,
And till we share your joys, forgive our grief
These little rites, a stone, a verse, receive;
"Tis all a father, all a friend, can give !

ON SIR GODFREY KNELLER,

In Westminster Abbey, 1723. KNELLER, by Heaven, and not a master, taught, Whose art was nature, and whose pictures thought; Now for two ages having snatch'd from fate Whate'er was beauteous, or whate'er was great, Lies'crown'd with princes' honours, poets' lays, Due to his merit, and brave thirst of praise.

Living, great nature fear'd he might outvie Her works; and, dying, fears herself may die.

ON GENERAL HENRY WITHERS,

In Westminster Abbey, 1729. HERE, Withers, rest! thou bravest, gentlest minds Thy country's friend, but more of human-kind. O born to arms ! O worth in youth approved ! O soft humanity, in age beloved !

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For thee the hardy veteran drops a tear,
And the gay courtier feels the sigh sincere.

Withers, adieu! yet not with thee remove
Thy martial spirit, or thy social love'
Amidst corruption, luxury, and rage,
Still leave some ancient virtues to our age:
Nor let us say (those English glories gone)
The last true Briton lies beneath this stone.

ON MR. ELIJAH FENTON,

Al Easthamstead, in Berks, 1730.
Tuus modest stone, what few vain marbles can,
May truly say, 'Here lies an honest man:'
A poet, bless'd beyond the poet's fate,
Whom Heaven kept sacred from the proud and great
Foe to loud praise, and friend to learned ease,
Content with science in the vale of peace,
Calmly he look'd on either life, and here
Saw nothing to regret, or there to fear;
From nature's temperate feast rose satisfied,
Chank'd Heaven that he had lived, and that he died

ON MR. GAY,

In Westminster Abbey, 1730.
Of manners gentle, of affections mild;
n wit, a man; simplicity, a child :
With native humour tempering virtuous rage,
Formn'd to delight at once and lash the age :
Above temptation in a low estate,
And uncorrupted, e'en among the great:
A safe companion, and an easy friend,
Unblamed through life, lamented in thy end.
These are thy honours! not that here thy bust
Is mix'd with heroes, or with kings thy dust ;
But that the worthy and the good shall say,
Striking their pensive bosoms— Here lies Gay

ANOTHER.

WELL then! poor Gay lies under ground,

So there's an end of honest Jack:
So little justice here he found,

'Tis ten to one he'll ne'er come back.

INTENDED FOR SIR ISAAC NEWTON,

In Westminster Abbey.
ISAACUS NEWTONUS:

Quem Immortalem
Testantur 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

ON DR. FRANCIS ATTERBURY,

BISHOP OF ROCHESTER,

Who died in Exile in Paris, 1732. His only daughter having expired in his arms, immo diately after she arrived in France to see him.]

DIALOGUE. She. Yes, we have lived-one pang, and then we part; May Heaven, dear father! now have all thy heart. Yet, ah! how once we loved, remember still, Till you are dust like me.

He. Dear shade! I will: Then mix this dust with thine-O spotless ghost ! O more than fortune, friends, or country lost! Is there on earth one care, one wish beside ? Yes—Save my country, Heaven,'-He said, and died

ON EDMUND DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM,

Who died in the 19th year of his age, 1735.
If modest youth with cool reflection crown'd,
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 approved,
The senate heard him, and his country loved.
Yet softer honours, and less noisy fame
Attend the shade of gentle Buckingham :
In whom a race, for courage famed and art,
Ends in the milder merit of the heart;
And, chiefs or sages long to Britain given,
Pays the last tribute of a saint to Heaven.

FOR ONE WHO WOULD NOT BE BURIED

IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
Heroes and kings ! your distance keep;
In peace let one poor poet sleep,
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 shall lay o'er my head; Lies one who ne'er cared, 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.

LORD CONINGSBY'S EPITAPH.
HERE lies Lord Coningsby-be civil:
The rest God knows--so does the devil.

ON BUTLER'S MONUMENT.

Perhaps by Mr Pope.2
RESPECT to Dryden, Sheffield justly paid,
And noble Villers honour'd Cowley's shade:
But whence this Barber?--that a name so 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.

1 This Epitaph, originally written on Picus Mirandula, is applied to F. Chartres, and printed among the works of Swift. See Hawkesworth's edition, vol. vi.-S.

2 Mr. Pope, in one of the prints from Scheemaker's inonument of Shakspeare in Westminster Abbey, has sufficiently shown his contempt of Alderman Barber, by the following couplet, which is substituted in the place of “The cloud.capt towers,' &c.

• Thus Britain loved me; and preserved my fame, Clear from a Barber's or a Benson's name.'-A. POPE

Pope might probably have suppressed his satire on the alderman, because he was one of Swift's acquaintances and correspondents; though in the fourth book of the Dunciad he has an anonymous stroke at him:

So by each bard an alderman shall sit,
A heavy lord shall hang at every wit.'

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