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Quick at your call the trembling flaves appear,
Now, Lord have mercy on poor Dick! fay I;
Mr. Pitt's fervant, the fon of a blacksmith.
Another fervant of Mr. Pitt.
Blandford fair; two miles from Pimpern, Mr. Pitt's rectory, where he was born, and where he died, April 13, 1748, aged 48. See his epitaph in Hutchins's Dorfet, I. 82. N.
Awhile give o'er your rage; in ficknefs prove
Written in the Folds of a PIN-PAPER.
F old, a hundred Cyclops ftrove
* A feller of pins at Blandford. PITT.
DE MINIMIS MAXIMA.
AUTORE LUDOVICO DUNCOMBE*.
TRANSLATION of the foregoing, by MR. PITT.
a fmall acorn, fee! the oak arise,
See this ingenious young gentleman's verfes to the memory of Mr. Hughes, in vol. XXXI. He was fecond fon of John Duncombe, Efq. of Stocks; and died at Merton College, Oxford, where he was a gentleman commoner, Dec. 26, 1730, in the twentieth year of his age. N.
Infcribed on a Stone that covers his Father, Mother, and Brother*,
YE facred fpirits! while your friends diftrefs'd
Weep o'er your afhes, and lament the blefs'd;
The penfive Mufe!-who, from this mournful hour,
*Robert Pitt, A. M. his eldest brother. See the Latin infcription, in Hutchins's Dorfet, vol. I. p. 83.
A POEM on the DEATH of the late Earl STANHOPE. Humbly inscribed to the Countess of STANHOPE.
"At length, grim Fate, thy dreadful triumphs ceafe: "Lock up the tomb, and feal the grave in peace."
WOW from thy riot of deftruction breathe, Call in thy raging plagues, thou tyrant Death: Too mean's the conqueft which thy arms bestow, Too mean to fweep a nation at a blow. No, thy unbounded triumphs higher run, And feem to ftrike at all mankind in one; Since Stanhope is thy prey, the great, the brave, A nobler prey was never paid the grave. We feem to feel from this thy daring crime, A blank in nature, and a pause in time. He food fo high in Reafon's towering sphere, As high as man unglorify'd could bear. In arms, and eloquence, like Cæfar, fhone So bright, that each Minerva was his own. How could fo vaft a fund of learning lie Shut up in fuch a fhort mortality? One world of fcience nobly travell'd o'er, Like Philip's glorious fon, he wept for more.
And now, refign'd to tears, th' angelic choirs, With drooping heads, unftring their golden lyres, Wrapt in a cloud of grief, they figh to view Their facred image laid by death fo low: