ON A STONE THAT COVERS THE REMAINS OF
THE FATHER, MOTHER, AND BROTHER OF
MR. PITT.*
Ye sacred spirits! while your friends, distress'd,
Weep o'er your ashes, and lament the bless'd,
O, let the pensive muse inscribe that stone,
And with the general sorrows mix her own;
The pensive muse, who, from this mournful hour
Shall raise her voice, and wake the strings no more;
Of love, of duty, this last pledge receive,-
'Tis all a brother, all a son can give.
A famous sportsman, on whose grave-stone is delineated a hare run down, and from a label at her mouth this motto, "I have finish'd my course."
If ever sport to thee was dear,
Drop on Joe Mitchel's grave a tear;
Who, when alive, with nimble eye,
Did myriads of hares descry.
He was professor of the art,
Those animals to ken and start;
All arts and sciences beside
This hare-brain'd hero did deride;
An utter foe to wedlock's noose,
In which close state appear'd no muse.
Joe scorn'd this earth, he was above it,
But only for form-sake did love it;
But Joe at length was spy'd by Death,
And cours'd and run quite out of breath;
No shifting, winding turn could save
Joe from the all-devouring grave.
As greyhounds, with superior force,
Will seize poor puss, and end her course,
So stopp'd the Fates this sportsman true,
Who now for ever bids adieu
To shrill soho! and loud halloo !
* Earl of Chatham-written by him.
Here continueth to rot
The body of Francis Chartres,
Who, with an inflexible constancy, and
Inimitable uniformity of life,
Persisted,
In spite of age and infirmities,
In the practice of every human vice;
Excepting prodigality and hypocrisy.
His indefatigable avarice exempted him from the first; His matchless impudence from the second. Nor was he more singular in the undeviating pravity of his manners, than successful in accumulating wealth:
For, without trade or profession,
Without trust of public money,
And without bribe-worthy service,
He acquired, or more properly created,
A ministerial estate.
He was the only person of his time
Who could cheat without the mask of honesty,
Retain his primæval manners when possessed of
Ten thousand a year.
And having daily deserved the gibbet for what he did,
Was at last condemned to it for what he could not do.
Oh! indignant reader!
Think not his life useless to mankind!
Providence connived at his execrable designs,
To give after-ages a conspicuous
Proof and example
Of how small estimation is exorbitant wealth
In the sight of God, by his bestowing it on the most
unworthy of all mortals.
He left behind him £100,000 in money.
ON MRS. CORBETT, IN WESTMINSTER
ABBEY.
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,
Convinc'd that virtue only is our own.
So unaffected, so compos'd a mind,
So firm, yet soft-so strong, yet so refined;
Heav'n, as its purest gold, by tortures tried*,-
The saint sustain'd it, but the woman died.
IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY, ON MR. ROWE.
Thy relics, Rowe, to this fair tomb we trust,
And, sacred, place by Dryden's awful dust.
Beneath a rude and nameless stone he lies,
To which thy urn shall guide inquiring eyes.
Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest!
Bless'd in thy genius, in thy love too blest.
One grateful woman to thy fame supplies
What a whole thankless land to thee denies.
ON SIR GODFREY KNELLER, IN WESTMINSTER
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' bays,
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.
* She died of a cancer in her breast.
ON A YOUNG MAN, KILLED BY DRINKING.
Here be I must,
Wrapt up in dust,
Confined to be sober.
Clarke*, take care,
Lest you come here,
For, faith, here's no October.
ON THE MONUMENT OF THE HON. ROBERT
DIGBY, AND HIS SISTER MARY,
In the Church of Sherborne, Dorset.
BY POPE. (1727.)
Go! fair example of untainted youth,
Of modest wisdom, and pacific truth:
Compos'd in suff'rings, and in joy sedate,
Good without noise-without pretension,-great.
Just to 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 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, forgive our grief.
These little rites, a stone, a verse, receive,
'Tis all a father,-all a friend can give.
Erected, by their father, Lord Digby.
ON GENERAL WITHERS, IN WESTMINSTER
Here Withers rests! thou bravest, gentlest mind,
Thy country's friend, but more of human kind.
Oh, born to arms! Oh, worth, in youth approv'd!
Oh, soft humanity, in age belov'd!
For thee, the hardy vet'ran drops a tear,
And the gay courtier feels a 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.
Beneath this little length of stone,
In peace, a youth is laid;
How soon cut off! just seen and known,
Just blooming, and decayed.
Thy parent's joy, their chiefest care,
Rest in thy urn secure;
They only know the grief they bear,
For they alone endure.
In death secur'd, from woes retir'd,
In innocence now rest;
What made thee here to be admir'd,
In heaven now makes thee bless'd.
IN BURY ST. EDMUND'S CHURCH-YARD. Fond youth, beware betimes, death skulks behind thee: Remember, as death leaves, the judgment finds thee.
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