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On the Hon. Simon Harcourt, only Son of the Lord Chancellor Harcourt, at the Church of Stanton-Harcourt, in Oxfordshire, 1720.


O this sad shrine, whoe'er thou art, draw near; Here lies the friend most lov'd, the son most dear; Who ne'er knew joy but friendship might divide, Or gave his father grief but when he died. How vain is reason, eloquence how weak! If Pope must tell what Harcourt cannot speak. Oh! let thy once-lov'd friend inscribe thy stone, And with a father's sorrows mix his own!

On James Craggs, Esq. in Westminster Abbey.



STATESMAN, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere,

In action faithful, and in honour clear! Who broke no promise, serv'd no private end, Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend; Ennobled by himself, by all approv'd,

Prais'd, wept, and honour'd, by the Muse he lov'd.

Intended for Mr. Rowe in Westminster Abbey. THY reliques, Rowe! to this fair urn we trust, And sacred, place by Dryden's awful dust: Beneath a rude and nameless stone he lies, To which thy tomb 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 his denies.

On Mrs. Corbet, who died of a Cancer in her Breast.


ERE rests a woman, good without pretence,

Bless'd with plain reason and with sober sense: No conquest she but o'er herself desir'd,

No arts essay'd but not to be admir'd.

Passion and pride were to her soul unknown,

Convinc'd that virtue only is our own.

So unaffected, so compos'd a mind,

页 So firm yet soft, so strong yet so refin'd, Heav'n, as its purest gold, by tortures tried; The saint sustain'd it, but the woman died.

On the Monument of the Hon. Robert Digby, and of his Sister Mary, erected by their Father Lord Digby, in the Church of Sherborne, in Dorsetshire, 1727.


O! fair example of untainted youth,

Of modest wisdom and pacific truth:
Compos'd in sufferings, and in joy sedate,

Good without noise, without pretension great:
Just of 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 hath 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!

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, poets' lays, Due to his merit and brave thirst of praise.

Living, great Nature fear'd he night outvie IIer works; and, dying, fears herself may die.

Qn General Henry Withers, in Westminster Abbey, 1729.

H ERE, Withers! rest; thou bravest, gentlest


Thy country's friend, but more of human-kind.
O born to arms! O worth in youth approv'd!
O soft humanity, in age belov'd!

For thee the hardy veteran 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 ancient virtues to our age;
Nor let us say (those English glories gone)
The last true Briton lies beneath this stone.

On Mr. Elijah Fenton, at Easthamsted, in Berkt, 1730.

THIS modest stone, what few vain marbles can, May truly say, Here lies an honest man;

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

Whom Heaven 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 temperate feast rose satisfied,
Thank'd Heav'n that he had liv'd, and that he died.

On Mr. Gay, in Westminster Abbey, 1732.
F manners gentle, of affections mild;


In wit a man; simplicity, a child:
With native humour tempering 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 through life, lamented in thy end.
These are thy honours! not that here they 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!'

Intended for Sir Isaac Newton, in Westminster




NATURE and Nature's laws lay hid in night:

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God said, 'Let Newton be!' and all was light.

On Dr. Francis Atterbury, Bishop of Rochester, who died in exile, at Paris, 1732. [His only daughter having expired in his arms, immediately after she arrived in France to see him.]




S, 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 died.

On Edmund Duke of Buckingham, who died in the Nineteenth Year of his Age, 1735.

IF modest youth, with cool reflection crown'd,

And every opening 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,
End 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.

For one who would not be buried in Westminster


EROES and kings! your distance keep;


In peace let one poor poet sleep,

Who never flatter'd folks lie you :

Let Horace blush, and Virgil too.

Another on the same.

NDER this marble, or under this sill,


Or under this turf, or e'en 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.


Corrall, Printer, Charing Cross,

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