His saltem accumulem donis, et fungar inani
Munere !
ON CHARLES EARL OF DORSET,
IN THE CHURCH OF WITHYAM, SUSSEX.
DORSET, the grace of courts, the Muse's pride,
Patron of arts, and judge of nature, died!
The scourge of pride, though sanctified or great,
Of fops in learning, and of knaves in state:
Yet soft his nature, though severe his lay,
His anger moral, and his wisdom gay.
Bless'd satirist! who touch'd the mean so true,
As show'd, vice had his hate and pity too.
Bless'd courtier! who could king and country please,
Yet sacred keep his friendships and his ease.
Bless'd peer! his great forefathers' every grace
Reflecting, and reflected in his race;
Where other Buckhursts, other Dorsets, shine,
And patriots still, or poets, deck the line.
ONE OF THE PRINCIPAL SECRETARIES OF STATE TO KING WILLIAM III..
Who, having resigned his Place, died in his Retirement at
Easthamsted, in Berkshire, 1716.
A PLEASING form, a firm yet cautious mind;
Sincere, though prudent, constant, yet resign'd:
Honour unchang'd, a principle profest,
Fix'd to one side, but moderate to the rest:
An honest courtier, yet a patriot too,
Just to his prince, and to his country true:
Fill'd with the sense of age, the fire of youth,
A scorn of wrangling, yet a zcal for truth;
A generous faith, from superstition free,
A love of peace, and hate of tyranny:
Such this man was, who now, from earth remov'd, At length enjoys that liberty he lov'd.
ON THE HON. SIMON HARCOURT,
ONLY SON OF THE LORD CHANCELLOR HARCOURT.
At the Church of Stanton-Harcourt, Oxfordshire, 1720.
To 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.
JACOBUS CRAGGS,
REGI MAGNE BRITANNIE A SECRETIS,
ET CONSILIIS SANCTIORIBUS,
PRINCIPIS PARITER AC POPULI AMOR ET DELICIA:
VIXIT TITULIS ET INVIDIA MAJOR
ANNOS, HEU PAUCOS, XXXV.
OB. FEB. XVI. M.DCC.XX.
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.
HERE 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,
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. R. DIGBY, AND OF HIS SISTER
ERECTED BY THEIR FATHER LORD DIGBY,
In the Church of Sherborne, in Dorsetshire, 1727.
Go! 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 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!
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 might outvie
Her works; and dying, fears herself
may die.
ON GENERAL HENRY WITHERS,
IN WESTMINSTER-ABBEY, 1729.
HERE, Withers! rest; thou bravest, gentlest 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 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, 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 temperate feast rose satisfied,
Thank'd Heav'n that he had liv'd, and that he died.
ON MR. GAY,
IN WESTMINSTER-ABBEY, 1732,
Or 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 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!'
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