Captain Nicholas Tattersell,
Through whose prudence, valour, and loyalty, Charles the Second, King of England, After he had escaped the sword of his merciless rebels, And his forces received a fatal overthrow At Worcester, Sept. 3, 1651,
Was faithfully preserved, and conveyed to France;
Departed this life 26th July, 1674.
Within this marble monument doth lie
Approved faith, honour, and loyalty:
In this cold clay he has now taken up his station,
Who once preserved the church, the crown, and nation.
When Charles the Great was nothing but a breath,
This valiant soul stepp'd in 'twixt him and death:
Usurper's threats, nor tyrant's rebel frown,
Could not affright his duty to the crown;
Which glorious act of his for church and state,
Eight princes in one day did gratulate;
Professing all to him in debt to be,
As all the world are to his memory.
Since earth could not reward the worth him given,
He now receives it from the King of Heaven,
In the same chest one jewel more you have,
The partner of his virtue, bed, and grave.
AT COLKIRK, NORFOLK.
William Timperley, died 10th May, 1660.
Reader,
However young and strong, be not in breath
Too confident; since by untimely death,
(A pistol breaking in his hand) lies her e
A Timperley rather a tear
Distil, than judge, since he so worthy dies;
Rather let fall another from thine eyes,
And (serious) say (ask not a reason why)
Better die soon, than longer live and die.
ASHFORDBY, LEICESTERSHIRE.
John Morris, died 14th Feb. 1687.
Here lies his dust, who, living, had the love
Of all that knew him here, of God above;
Whose soul with too much virtue was array'd
In this world's pesthouse to be longer stay'd;
And therefore, to secure his innocence,
He bade adieu and took his flight from hence,
Ascending to the court of power divine,
To choose his Saviour for a Valentine.
ON THOMAS CROSSFIELD, M. D.
(Written by Himself.)
IN HENDON CHURCH-YARD, MIDDLESEX.
Beneath this stone Tom Crossfield lies,
Who cares not now who laughs or cries;
He laugh'd when sober, and, when mellow,
Was a harum-scarum heedless fellow.
He gave to none design'd offence,
So," Honi soit qui mal y pense !"
ON CHRISTOPHER BAKER,
PRINTER TO QUEEN ELIZABETH,
Who died in 1607, and was buried in Datchet Church, near
Windsor.
Here Baker lies, once printer to the crown,
Whose works of art acquir'd a vast renown.
Time saw his worth, and spread around his fame,
That future printers might imprint the same.
But when his strength could work the press no more,
And his last sheets were folded into store,
Pure faith, with hope (the greatest treasures given)
Open'd their gates, and bade him pass to heaven.
ON AN ASSISTANT MUSICIAN IN LLANFLLAN-
TWTHYL CHURCH-YARD.
Under this stone lies Meredith Morgan,
Who blew the bellows of our church organ;
Tobacco he hated, to smoke most unwilling,
Yet never so pleased as when pipes he was filling:
No reflection on him for rude speech could be cast,
Though he gave our old organist many a blast.
No puffer was he,
Though a capital blower,
He could fill double G.
And now lies a note lower.
IN ST. MARY'S CHURCH, LIMERICK.
Here lieth little Samvell Barinton, that great Vndertaker,
Of famiovs cittio clock and chime maker,
He made his one time goe early and latter,
Bvt now he is retvrn'd to God his Creator,
The 19th of November then he seeast,
And for his memorie this here is pleast
By his son Ben-1693.
ON AN INFANT EIGHT MONTHS OLD.
Since I have been so quickly done for,
I wonder what I was begun for.
AT DALLINGTON, ON A SLAB.
JULY 30, 1647.
Since when in part,
Here Marie Hart
Hath fading been;
Who was before,
And will much more,
Be Marie Greene.
ON A TABLET TO THE MEMORY OF GENERAL WOLFE.
IN WESTERHAM CHURCH, KENT.
While George in sorrow bows his laurel'd head,
And bids the artist grace the soldier dead;
We raise no sculptur'd trophy to thy name,
Brave youth!-the fairest in the list of fame.
Proud of thy birth, we boast the auspicious year;
Struck with thy fall, we shed the generous tear.
With humble grief inscribe one artless stone,
And with thy matchless honours date our own.
ON PETER WILSON, WHO WAS DROWNED. Peter was in the ocean drown'd,
A careless, hapless creature!
And when his lifeless trunk was found,
It was become Salt Peter!
IN GREAT BILLING CHURCH, NORTHAMPTON-
SHIRE.
Justinian Bracegirdle, underneath this stone,
Hath left his pawn of resurrection;
Who, four and fifty winters, did afforde
This flocke the pasture of God's heavenly word;
And all his lifetime did employ his care,
Soe to growe riche, to make the poore his heyre.
Being charitye's faythfull stewert, he imparts
Twelve hundred pounds to nourish Oxford artes;
Then if our God to them ope heaven doore,
That give but drops of water to the poore,
Sure his wise soul laid up a treasure there,
That nere shal rust who not bought heaven so deare,
When fayth and good works have so long contended,
That fayth is almost dedd and good works ended.
Obit Oct. 25, 1625.
Sacred to the memory of a lady, celebrated for the many
accomplishments of her mind and person.
Ob. 25, Ap. 1819, Æ. 30.
Nemo tam dives habuit faventis,
Crastinum ut possit sibi policeri.—SENECA.
Whoe'er thou art, who lonely wand'reth here,
To shed o'er sainted worth the tender tear;
To view the virtues of celestial birth,
In one who living made an heaven on earth!
Whom death, all eloquent, with stroke severe,
Cut short, like some fair flower, her bright career!
Know, stranger, then, the dear loved form entomb'd
Was beauty's self!-in whom the graces bloomed
Sweetness and goodness, every charm bestowed,
That in the breast of chaste "Cecilia" glowed.*
O! ye, whose eyes the fount of pity seem,
Whose hearts would melt at sorrow's anguish'd stream,
Think what her partner, friends, and children felt,
When at the couch of death they silent knelt!
Dwelt on the closing of that languid eye,
Whose sympathetic spring was never dry!
When, Howard's deeds in beauteous colors shone,
She felt that charm, and made that charm her own!
Her fancy painted what her soul possest,
And she who felt them most must paint them best!
When poignant grief, in piteous accents, told
Its tale of woe, her heart was cold;
She gave the troubl'd soul the wish'd for peace,
Dried up its tears, and bid its sorrows cease.
Not these were all-her Christian faith outvied
Her mental gifts-religion's rule and guide!
Immortal now, she rests in joy above,
There sweetly sings her dear Redeemer's love!
* Alluding to a beautiful drawing made by this excellent lady, after one from Howard's at Rome, of the tomb of St. Cecilia.
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