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 !

ΚΑ

ON SIR GODFREY KNELLER,
In Westminster Abbey, 1723.

NELLER, 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' 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.

In Westminster Abbey, 1729.:

ERE, Withers, rest! thou bravest, gentleşt mind,
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 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 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 Berks, 1730.

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

A poet, blest beyond 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 temp'rate feast rose satisfied,
Thank'd Heaven that he had liv'd, and that he died.

ON MR. GAY,

In Westminster Abbey, 1732.

F manners gentle, of affections mild;

OF

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 through life, lamented in thy end.
These are thy honours! not that here thy bust
1s 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!

ANOTHER.

WELL then, poor Gay lies under ground,

So there's an end of honest Jack:

So little justice here he found,

'Tis ten to one he 'll ne'er come back.

INTENDED FOR SIR ISAAC NEWTON,
In Westminster Abbey.

ISAACUS NEWTONUS:

Quem Immortalem

Testantur Tempus, Natura, Cœlum:
Mortalem

Hoc Marmor Fatetur.

NATURE and nature's laws lay hid in night:

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

ON DR. FRANCIS ATTERBURY,

BISHOP OF ROCHESTER.

Who died in Exile in Paris, 1732.

[His only Daughter having expired in his arms, immediately after she arrived in France to see him.]

DIALOGUE.

ES, we have liv'd--one pang, and then we part!

She. YES,

May heaven, dear father! now have all thy heart.

Yet, ah! how once we lov'd, remember still,
Till you are dust like me.

He.

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, heaven,'--He said, and died.

ON EDMUND DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM,
Who died in the 19th year of his age, 1735.
IF modest youth, with cool reflection crown'd,

And ev'ry 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,
Ends in the milder merit of the heart;
And, chiefs or sages long to Britain given,
Pays the last tribute of a saint to Heaven.

FOR ONE WHO WOULD NOT BE BURIED IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

HER

EROES 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.

ANOTHER ON THE SAME.

UNDER 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.

LORD CONINGSBY'S EPITAPH*.

HERE lies Lord Coningsby---be civil;

The rest God knows---so does the devil.

ON BUTLER'S MONUMENT.

Perhaps by Mr. Popet.

RESPECT to Dryden, Sheffield justly paid,

And noble Villers honour'd Cowley's shade: But whence this Barber?--that a name so mean Should, join'd with Butler's, on a tomb be seen:

This Epitaph, originally written on Picus Mirandula, is applied to F. Chartres, and printed among the works of Swift. See Hawkesworth's edition, vol. vi. S.

† Mr. Pope, in one of the prints from Scheemaker's monument of Shakespeare in Westminster Abbey, has sufficiently shown his contempt of Al derman Barber, by the following couplet, which is