1. On Charles Earl of Dorfet, in the
Church of Witham, in Suffex.
DORSET, the grace of courts, the Mufe's pride,
Patron of arts, and judge of Nature, dy'd;
The fcourge of pride, tho' fanctify'd or great,
Of fops in learning, and of knaves in state;
Yet foft his nature, tho' fevere his lay,
His anger moral, and his wisdom gay.
Blefs'd Satirift! who touch'd the mean fo true,
As fhow'd vice had his hate and pity too.
Blefs'd Courtier! who could king and country please,
Yet facred keep his friendships and his ease.
Blefs'd Peer! his great forefathers' ev'ry grace
Reflecting, and reflected in his race;
Where other Buckhurfts, other Dorfets, fine,
And patriots ftill, or pocts, deck the line.
II. On Sir William Trumball, one of the principal Secretaries of State to King William III. who, having refigned his Place, died in his Retirement at Easthamftead in Berkshire, 1716.
A PLEASING form, a firm yet cautious mind,
Sincere, tho' prudent, conftant, yet refign'd:
Honour unchang'd, a principle profeft,
Fix'd to one fide, but mod'rate to the reft:
An honeft courtier, yet a patriot too,
Juft to his prince, and to his country true:
Fill'd with the fenfe of age, the fire of youth,
A fcorn of wrangling, yet a zeal for truth;
A gen'rous faith, from fuperftition free,
A love to peace, and hate of tyranny:
Such this man was, who now, from earth remov'd,
At length enjoys that liberty he lov'd.
III. On the Hon. Simon Harcourt, only Son of the Lord Chancellor Harcourt, at the Church of Stanton-Harcourt in Oxfordshire, 1720:
To this fad fhrine, whoe'er thou art, draw near; Here lies the friend moft lov'd, the fon moft dear; Who ne'er knew joy but friendship might divide, Or gave his father grief but when he dy’d. How vain is reafon, 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 forrows mix his own!
IV. On James Craggs, Efq. in Westminster-Abbey.
JACOBUS CRAGGS
REGI MAGNE BRITANNIE A SECRETIS
ET CONSILIIS SANCTIORIBUS,
PRINCIPIS PARITER AC POPULI AMOR ET
DELICIÆ:
VIXIT TITULIS ET INVIDIA MAJOR
ANNOS, HEU PAUCOS, XXXV..
OB. FEB. XVI. M,DCC, XX.
Statefman, yet friend to truth! of foul fincere,
In action faithful, and in honour clear!
Who broke no promife, ferv'd no private end,
Who gain'd no title, and who loft no friend;
Ennobled by himself, by all approv'd,
Prais'd, wept, and honour'd, by the Muse he lov❜d.
V. Intended for Mr. Rowe in Weftminster-Abbey.
THY reliques, Rowe! to this fair urn we truft,
And facred, place by Dryden's awful duft :
Beneath a rude and nameleis ftone he lies,
To which thy tomb fhall guide inquiring eyes.
Peace to thy gentle fhade, and endless rest!
Blefs'd in thy genius, in thy love too bleft!
One grateful woman to thy fame fupplies
What a whole thankless land to his denies.
VI. On Mrs. Corbet, who died of a
Cancer in her Breaft.
HERE refts a woman, good without pretence,
Blefs'd with plain reafon and with fober fense:
No conqueft the but o'er herself defir'd,
No arts effay'd but not to be admir'd.
Paffion and pride were to her foul unknown,
Convinc'd that virtue only is our own.
So unaffected, fo compos'd a mind,
So firm yet soft, so strong yet so refin’d,
Heaven, as its pureft gold, by tortures try'd,
The faint fuftain'd it, but the woman dy'd.
VII. On the Monument of the Hon. Robert Digby, and of his fifter Mary, erected by their Father the Lord Digby, in the Church of Sherborne in Dorfetfhire,
Go! fair example of untainted youth,
Of modeft wisdom and pacific truth :
Compos'd in fuff'rings, and in joy fedate,
Good without noife, without pretension great :
Juft of thy word, in ev'ry thought fincere,
Who knew no wifh but what the world might hear:
Of fofteft 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, blefs'd maid! attendant on his doom,
Penfive haft follow'd to the filent tomb,
Steer'd the fame course to the fame quiet fhore,
Not parted long, and now to part no more!
Go then, where only blifs fincere 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
Weftminster-Abbey, 1723.
KNELLER by Heav'n, and not a master, taught,
Whofe art was Nature, and whofe pictures thought;
Now for two ages having fnatch'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 might outvie
Her works; and, dying, fears herself
may die.
VIX. On General Henry Withers in
Westminster-Abbey, 1729.
HERE, Withers! reft; thou braveft, gentleft mind,
Thy country's friend, but more of human-kind.
Oh born to arms! O worth in youth approv'd!
O foft humanity, in age belov'd!
For thee the hardy vet'ran drops a tear,
And the gay courtier feels the figh fincere.
Withers! adieu; yet not with thee remove
Thy martial fpirit or thy focial love!
Amidst corruption, luxury, and rage,
Still leave fome ancient virtues to our age
Nor let us fay (thofe English glories gone)
The last true Briton lies beneath this stone.
X. On Mr. Elijah Fenton, at
Easthamfted, in Berks, 1730.
THIS modeft ftone, what few vain marbles can,
May truly fay, Here lies an honest man;
A poet blefs'd beyond the poet's fate,
Whom Heav'n kept facred from the proud and great;
Foe to loud praise, and friend to learned eafe,
Content with fcience 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 rofe fatisfy'd,
Thank'd Heav'n that he had liv'd, and that he dy'd.
XI. On Mr. Gay in Westminster-Abbey, 1732. OF manners gentle, of affections mild;
In wit a man, fimplicity 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 fafe companion, and an eafy friend,
Unblam'd thro' life, lamented in thy end.
These are thy honours! not that here thy buft
Is mix'd with heroes, or with kings thy duft;
But that the worthy and the good shall say,
Striking their penfive bofoms-Here lies Gay.
XII. Intended for Sir Ifaac Newton, in
Wefiminfter-Abbey.
ISAACUS NEWTONUS:
Quem Immortalem
Teftantur Tempus, Natura, Coelum :
Mortalem
Hoc Marmor Fatetur.
Nature and Nature's laws lay hid in night;
God faid, 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, imme diately after the arrived in France to fee him.] DIALOGUE.
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 duft like me.
Then mix this duft with thine-O fpotlefs ghoft!
O more than fortune, friends, or country lost!
Is there on earth one care, one wish befide?.
Yes-Save my country, Heav'n—He said, and dy'd. ro
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