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Of softest manners, unaffected mind,
Lover of peace, and friend of human-kind!
Go live! for Heav'n'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!


VIII. On Sir Godfrey Kneller, in Westminster Abbey, 1723.

KNELLER by Heav'n, 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, poet's 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.

IX. On General Henry Wilbers, in Westminster Abbey. 1729,

HERE, Withers! rest; thou bravest, gentlest, mind,
Thy country's friend, but more of human kind.
Oh, born to arms! O worth in youth approv'd!
O soft humanity, in age belov'd!

For thee the hardy vet'ran drops a tear,
And the gay courtier feels the sigh sincere.
Withers! adieu; yet not with thee remove
Thy martial spirit, or thy social love!
Amidst corruption, luxury, and rage,
Still leave some antient virtues to our age;
Nor let us say (those English glories gone)
The last true Briton lies beneath this stone,




X. On Mr. Elijah Fenton, at Easthamsted in Berks, 1730.

THIS modest stone, what few vain marbles can,

May truly say, Here lies an honest man;

A poet bless'd beyond the poet's fate,

Whom Heav'n kept sacred from the proud and great;

Foe to loud praise, and friend to learned ease,

Content with science in the vale of peace.


Calmly he look'd on either life, and here

Saw nothing to regret, or there to fear;

From Nature's temp'rate feast rose satisfy'd,


Thank'd Heav'n that he had liv'd, and that he dy'd.

XI. On Mr. Gay, in Westminster-Abbey, 1732.

Or manners gentle, of affections mild;

In wit, a man; simplicity a child:

With native humour temp'ring virtuous rage,
Form'd to delight at once, and lash the age:
Above temptation in a low estate,
And uncorrupted ev'n among the great :
A safe companion, and an easy friend,
Unblam'd thro' life, lamented in thy end.
These are thy honours! not that here thy bust
Is mix'd with heroes, or with kings thy dust;
But that the worthy and the good shall say,
Striking their pensive bosoms---Here lies Gay. 12.

XII. Intended for Sir Isaac Newton, in Westminster Abbey.


Quem Immortalem
Testantur Tempus, Natura, Colum:

Hoc Marmor Fatetur.

Nature, and Nature's laws lay hid in night;
God said, Let Newton be! and all was light.

XIII. On Dr. Francis Atterbury, Bishop of Rochester, who died in exile at Paris, 1732.


[His only daughter having expired in his arms, mediately after she arrived in France to se e him.]



YES, we have liv'd---One pang, and then we part!
May heav'n, dear Father! now have all thy heart.
Yet, ah! how once we lov'd, remember still,
Till you are dust like me.


Dear shade! I will:

Then mix this dust with thine---O spotless ghost!
O more than fortune, friends, or country lost!
Is there on earth one care, one wish beside?

Yes---Save my Country, Heav'n---He said, and dy'd.

XIV. On Edmund Duke of Buckingham, who died in the nineteenth year of his age, 1735.

Ir modest youth, with cool reflection crown'd,
And ev'ry op'ning virtue blooming round,
Could save a parent's justest pride from fate,
Or add one patriot to a sinking state,
This weeping marble had not ask'd thy tear,
Or sadly told how many hopes lie here!


The living virtue now had shone approv❜d;
The senate heard him, and his country lov'd.
Yet softer honours, and less noisy fame
Attend the shade of gentle Buckingham,
In whom a race, for courage fam'd and art,
Ends in the milder merit of the heart;
And chiefs, or sages, long to Britain giv'n,
Pays the last tribute of a saint to heav'n.



XV. For one who would not be buried in Westminster-Abbey. HEROES and kings! your distance keep;

In peace let one poor poet sleep,

Who never flatter'd folks like you:
Let Horace blush, and Virgil too.

XVI. Another on the same.

UNDER this marble, or under this sill,
Or under this turf, or ev'n what they will;
Whatever an heir, or a friend in his stead,
Or any good creature shall lay o'er my head,
Lies one who ne'er car'd, and still cares not a pin
What they said, or may say, of the mortal within;
But who, living and dying, serene still and free,
Trusts in God, that as well as he was, he shall be.


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