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IV.

ON JAMES CRAGGS, ESQ.*

IX WESTMINSTER-ABBEY.

JACOBUS CRAGGS,
REGNI MAGNÆ BRITANNIA A SECRETIS

ET CONSILIIS SANCTIORIBUS,
PRINCIPIS PARITER AC POPULI AMOR ET DELICIA :

VIXIT TITULIS ET INVIDIA MAJOR
ANNOS, HEU PAUCOS, XXXV.

OB. FEB. XIV. MDCCXX.

STATESMAN, yet friend to truth ! of soul sincere,
In action faithful, and in honor clear! .
Who broke no promise, served no private end,
Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend,
Ennobled by himself, by all approved,
Praised, wept, and honor'd by the Muse he loved.

* He was the only son of James Craggs, who has been before mentioned. He had his education at a French seminary in Chelsea : afterwards he went to Hanover, and then to the court of Turin. He removed to Barcelona ; and in the absence of lord Stanhope, served as under-minister to the emperor. On the death of queen Anne, he was sent to Hanover, for which he was made, by the assistance of the duke of Marlborough, cofferer to the prince, and afterwards principal secretary of state. Considering the violent state of parties, no one had fewer enemies.

ON MR. ROWE,

IN WESTMINSTER-ABBFY.

Thy relics, Rowe! to this sad shrine we trust,
And near thy Shakspeare place thy honor'd bust,
0, next him, skill’d to draw the tender tear,
For never heart felt passion more sincere;
To nobler sentiment to fire the brave,
For never Briton more disdain'd a slave.
Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest;
Bless'd in thy genius, in thy love too bless'd!
And bless'd, that timely from our scene removed,
Thy soul enjoys the liberty it loved.

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To these, so mourn'd in death, so loved in life ! The childless parent, and the widow'd wife, With tears inscribes this monumental stone, That holds their ashes, and expects her own.

The following is the epitaph as it was originally written; but which was afterwards altered for the monument in the Abbey, erected to Rowe and his daughter :

Thy relics, 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 bless'd !
One grateful woman to thy fame supplies
What a whole thankless land to bis denies.

VI

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, desired;
No arts essay'd, but not to be admired.
Passion and pride were to her soul unknown, 5
Convinced that virtue only is our own.
So unaffected, so composed a mind;
So firm, yet soft; so strong, yet so refined;
Heaven, as its purest gold, by tortures tried :
The saint sustain'd it, but the woman died. 10

VII.

ON THE MONUMENT OF THE HON. ROBERT DIGBY,

AND OF HIS SISTER MARY, Erected by their father, the Lord Digby, in the church of

Sherborne in Dorsetshire, 1727.

10

Go! fair example of untainted youth,
Of modest wisdom, and pacific truth :
Composed in sufferings, and in joy sedate;
Good without noise, without pretension great:
Just of thy word, in every thought sincere; 5
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 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! 15
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!

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11 And thou, bless'd maid! Mr. Robert Digby, third son of lord Digby, who is yet remembered with respect at Sherborne, died of a consumption, and was soon after followed by the amiable and affectionate sister, who hung over his sick bed.

VIII.

ON SIR GODFREY KNELLER,

IN WESTMINSTER-ABBEY, 1723.

KNELLER, by Heaven and not a master taught, Whose art was nature, and whose pictures thought; Now for two ages having snatch'd from fate Whateer was beauteous, or whate'er was great, Lies crown'd with princes' honors, poets' lays, 5 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.

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