242

EPITAPHS.

VIRG.

His saltem accumulem donis, et fungar inani munere !

ON CHARLES EARL OF DORSET,

In the Church of Withyam, in Sussex. Dorset, the grace of courts, the Muses' pride, Patron of arts, and judge of nature, died. The scourge of pride, though sanctified or great, Of fops in learning, and of knaves in state : Yet soft his nature, though severe his lay, His anger moral, and his wisdom gay. . Bless'd satirist! who touch'd the mean so true, As show'd vice had his hate and pity too. Bless'd courtier! who could king and country please, Yet sacred keep his friendships, and his ease. Bless’d peer! his great forefathers' every grace Reflecting, and reflected in his race; Where other Buckhursts, other Dorsets shine,

nd patrons still, or poets, deck the line.

ON SIR WILLIAM TRUMBULL,

One of the principal Secretaries of State to King William the ; Third, who, having resigned his place, died in his Retirement

at Easthamsted, in Berkshire, 1716.

A PLEASING form ; a firm, yet cautious mind;
Sincere, though prudent; constant, yet resign'd:
Honour unchanged, a principle professid,

Pix'd to one side, but moderate to the rest :
An honest courtier, yet a patriot too;
Just to his prince and to his country true :
Fill'd with the sense of age, the fire of youth,
A scorn of wrangling, yét a zeal for truth :
A generous faith, from superstition free;
A love to peace, and hate of tyranny:
Such this man was; who now from earth removed,
At length enjoys that liberty he loved.

ON THE HON. SIMON HARCOURT,

Only Son of the Lord Chancellor Harcourt, at the Church of Stan

ton-Harcourt, in Oxfordshire, 1720.

To this sad shrine, whoe'er thou art, draw near;
Here lies the friend most loved, the son most dear;
Who ne'er knew joy but friendship might divide,
Or gave his father grief but when he died.

How vain is reason, eloquence how weak!
If Pope must tell what Harcourt cannot speak.
Oh let thy once-loved friend inscribe thy stone,
And with a father's sorrows mix his own!

ON JAMES CRAGGS, ESQ.

In Westminster Abbey.

JACOBUS CRAGGS,

REGI MAGNÆ BRITANNIÆ A SECRETIS

ET CONSILIIS SANCTIORIBUS,

PRINCIPIS PARITER AC POPULI AMOR ET

DELICIÆ.

VIXIT, TITULIS ET INVIDIA MAJOR,

ANNOS, HEU PAUCOS, XXXV.

OB. FEB. XVI. MDCCXX.

STATESMAN, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere,
In action faithful, and in honour cleaf !
Who broke no promise, served no private end,
Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend;
Ennobled by himself, by all approved,
Praised, wept, and honourd, by the muse he loved.

INTENDED FOR MR. ROWE,

In Westminster Abbey.

Thy reliques, Rowe, to this fair urn we trust,
And, sacred, place by Dryden's awful dust :
Beneath a rude and nameless stone he lies,
To which thy tomb shall guide inquiring eyes,
Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest!
Bless'd in thy genius, in thy love too bless'd!

One grateful woman to thy fame supplies
What a whole thankless land to his denies.

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ON MRS. CORBET,

Who died of a Cancer in her Breast.

Here rests a woman, good without pretence,
Bless'd with plain reason, and with sober sense ;
No conquests she, but o'er herself, desired,
No arts essay'd, but not to be admired.
Passion and pride were to her soul unknown,
Convinced that virtue only is our own.
So unaffected, so composed a mind;
So firm, yet soft; so strong, yet so refined ;
Heaven, as its purest gold, by tortures tried ;
The saint sustain'd it, but the woman died.

ON THE MONUMENT OF THE

HONOURABLE ROBERT DIGBY,

AND OF HIS SISTER MARY,

Erected by their Father, the Lord Digby, in the Church of Sher

borne, in Dorsetshire, 1727.

Go! fair example of untainted youth,
Of modest wisdom, and pacific truth ;
Composed in sufferings and in joy sedate,
Good without noise, without pretension great
Just of thy word, in every thought sincere,
Who knew no wish but what the world might hear;

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Of softest manners, unaffected mind,
Lover of peace, and friend of human-kind
Go, live ! for heaven's eternal year is thine,
Go, and exait thy moral to divine.

And thou, bless'd maid ! attendant on his doom,
Pensive has follow'd to the silent tomb,
Steer'd the same course to the same quiet shore,
Not parted long, 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, for give 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 from 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.