AN ACROSTIC EPITAPH.

On Sir Francis Walsingham, in St. Paul's Cathedral, Obit
Aprilis 6, 1590.

S hall honour, fame, and titles of renown,
In clods of clay be thus inclosed still?
Rather will I, though wiser wits may frown,
F or to enlarge his fame extend my skill.
Right gentle reader, be it known to thee,
A famous knight doth here interred lie,
Noble by birth, renowned by policie,
Confounding foes which wrought our jeopardie.
In foreign countries their intents he knew-
Such was his zeal to do his country good,
W hen dangers would by enemies ensue,
As well as they themselves he understood.
Launch forth, ye Muses, into streams of praise,
Sing and sound forth praiseworthy harmony;
In England death cut off his dismal days,
Not wrong'd by death, but by false treachery.
G rudge not at this imperfect epitaph:
H erein I have exprest my simple skill,
As the first-fruits proceeding from a graff,-

M ake then a better whosoever will.

Disce quid es, quid eris, memor esto quod morieris. E. W.

ON A CHILD.

Lo, lost ere born! an infant, ever dear,

Escap'd his parents' fond embrace, lies here;
One, who this darksome spot a moment tried,
Replete with ev'ry ill, and smiling, died!

Gone, now, where constant bliss and transport shine,
Eternal floods of rapture shall be thine.

This scene of woe-this swiftly fleeting dream,
How short its comforts, but its woes extreme!
Kind passenger, whose musing chance to stray
In this dread walk, this silent, solemn way,
Make haste-your glass now drops its latest sand,—
By truth and virtue, Death's dire stroke withstand;
Exalted, then, his dart, though it destroy,
Removes your soul to never-fading joy.

ON LADY GIN.

To her eternal memory alone,

A grateful Briton consecrates this stone;
Toher's alone, who, living, could impart
A patriot ardour to the coldest heart.
In church or state, who no distraction knew,
Friend to all parties-to all parties true.
Oft for her church and king she zealous stood,
But always steadfast for the public good;
For public good she lavish'd out her store,-
Her chiefest glory was to cheer the poor;
To glad the heart just breaking with despair,
To banish pain, and poverty, and care;
To soothe in ev'ry breast a various grief,
The maid's, the widow's, and the wife's relief.
In her th' imprison'd wretch might comfort meet,—
In her the poet find his last retreat;--

Partial to none, her bounty unconfin'd,

Generous she liv'd-a friend to most mankind.
So, in return, she liv'd by most caress'd,—
To rich, as to the poor, a welcome guest.
But, when fate longer space of life deny'd,
As lov'd she liv'd, so she lamented died.
She died!-Awhile, stop, gentle reader, here,—
For such lost virtue drop a silent tear.
'Tis due to merit; for this faithful stone
Does not record a virtue not her own;
Nor doubt that such a female e'er could be,
When, sighing, you behold that Gin was she.

ON SIR JOHN ROE.

BY BEN JONSON.

I'll not offend thee with a vain tear more,
Glad-mention'd Roe; thou art but gone before,
Whither the world must follow; and I now
Breathe to expect my When, and make my How.
Which, if most gracious heav'n grant like thine,
Who wets my grave, can be no friend of mine.

MURDER AND EPITAPH OF THE MARRS,
IN ST. GEORGE'S IN THE EAST.

All of whom were most inhumanly murdered in their dwelling-house, No. 29, Ratcliffe Highway, December 8, 1811.*

*

Stop, mortal, stop, as you pass by,

And view this grave, wherein do lie
A Father, Mother, and a Son,
Whose earthly course was shortly run.
For, lo! all in one fatal hour,

O'ercome were they with ruthless power,
And murder'd in a cruel state,-
Yea, far too horrid to relate.

They spared not one to tell the tale,
One for the other could not wail;
The other's fate they never sigh'd,
Loving they liv'd, together died.
Reflect, O reader, on thy fate,
And turn from sin before too late;
Life is uncertain in this world,
Oft' in a moment we are hurl'd
To endless bliss, or endless pain,—
So let not sin within you reign.

Thursday, the 19th of December (eleven days afterwards), as the watchman was going his rounds, in New Gravel Lane, Shadwell, in the county of Middlesex, he observed a young man, who was a lodger at the public-house, called the King's Arms, and kept by Mr. John Williamson, lowering himself down by two sheets from a two pair of stairs window, who told him that the family were murdered; whereupon the door was immediately broken open, and the bodies of Mrs. Catherine Williamson and her maid-servant, Bridget Harrington, were

ON A VIRGIN.

BY ANDREW MARVEL.

Enough! and leave the rest to fame,-
'Tis to commend her, but to name.
Courtship, which living she declin'd,
When dead to offer were unkind:
Where never any could speak ill,
Who would officious praises spill?
Nor can the truest wit or friend,
Without detracting her, commend;
Το say, she liv'd a virgin chaste,
In this age loose and all unlac'd!
Nor was where vice is so allow'd,
Of virtue, or asham'd or proud;
That her soul was on heav'n so bent,
No minute but it came and went;
That ready her last debt to pay,
She summ'd her life up ev'ry day;
Modest as morn, as midday bright,
Gentle as ev'ning, cool as night:
'Tis true, but all too weakly said.
'Twas more significant, she's dead.

IN WILLINGDON CHURCH, IN SUSSEX.

In Philopamen, Greece did teem her last;
In Cassius, Rome her vigour did exhaust;
Then blame not aged Britains feeble womb,
For, in her Parker's birth, she did consume

Her utmost strength. The world will scarce be strong
For such another brave conception.

found murdered in the tap-room, and the said Mr. John Williamson was found in the cellar in the same state.

John Williams, the supposed murderer of the Marrs' and Williamson's families, was buried close to the turnpike-gate, in the Cannon-Street Road; and the maul by which they were supposed to have been murdered was driven through the body, December 31, 1811.

FROM NELSON'S "ISLINGTON."

John Herd, late of the Custom House, Gent., and many years an inhabitant of this parish, who was barbarously murdured by footpads, on Friday, the 17th of May, 1782, aged 31.*

The following tribute to the memory of Mr. Herd (intended to have been inscribed on his monument), was written by his friend, Mr. William Woodfall, the celebrated reporter of Parliamentary debates, who at that time also resided in Islington:

Stop! youthful passenger,

And read with steady attention the following lines:
Here rest from the cares, the toils,

and follies of human nature,

the remains of

John Herd.

He, once (perhaps like thee), was engaged in a multiplicity of pursuits after fame, honours, wealth, and pleasures, but was suddenly arrested in the midst of his career, in the bloom of life, and plunged into eternity, by four villains, in the fields leading from the Shepherd and Shepherdess to Islington, as he was endeavouring to prevent being robbed,

*This gentleman, who had lodgings at Cannonbury House, whither he generally repaired pretty early of an evening, had been detained in town on the above fatal day till about eleven o'clock, in settling some matters relative to the marriage of his niece, which was to have taken place the next day with a Captain Best, of the 92d regiment, who, with two servants, was accompanying him to Islington. In the footpath, between the Shepherd and Shepherdess and the Prebend Field, not many yards from the porters' resting-block, they were attacked by four footpads. Mr. Herd, who was a very stout man, six feet high, and who had been often heard to declare that he would never submit to be robbed, offered some resistance; when one of the villains discharged a blunderbuss, and blew off the forepart of his head. One of the servants, who was armed with a pistol, which he attempted to fire at the thieves, received a wound on the arm with a cutlass. Captain Best and the other escaped unhurt. Gray, a notorious ruffian, who perpetrated this horrid murder, was, not long after, taken and executed, as was also Stunnel, and several others of this desperate gang.