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ON EDMUND DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM,
WHO DIED IN THE NINETEENTH YEAR OF HIS AGE,
Ir modest youth, with cool reflection crown'd,
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 approved,
The senate heard him, and his country loved.
Yet softer honors and less noisy fame
Attend the shade of gentle Buckingham ;
In whom a race, for courage famed 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
HEROES and kings ! your distance keep :
peace let one poor poet sleep,
Who never flatter'd folks like you :
Let Horace blush, and Virgil too.
UNDER this marble, or under this sill,
Or under this turf, or ev'n 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 cared, 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.
* Imitated from the well-known lines of Ariosto :
Ludovici Areosti humantur ossa
Sub hoc marmore, &c.
IN THE NAME OF MRS. BUTLER'S SPIRIT, LATELY DECEASED.
Those verses, from their gravity and beauty, are added to the
epitaphs: they were addressed to Dr. Bolton, late dean of Carlisle, who lived some time at Twickenham with old lady Blount. On the death of her mother, Mrs. Butler of Sussex, Dr. Bolton drew up the mother's character; and hence Pope took occasion to write this Epistle to Dr. Bolton, in the name of the spirit, in the regions of bliss.
Stripp’d to the naked soul, escaped from clay,
From doubts unfetter'd, and dissolved in day;
Unwarm’d by vanity, unreach'd by strife,
And all my hopes and fears thrown off with life;
Why am I charm'd by friendship's fond essays, 5
And though unbodied, conscious of thy praise ?
Has pride a portion in the parted soul?
Does passion still the firmless mind control?
Can gratitude outpant the silent breath?
Or a friend's sorrow pierce the gloom of death?
No: 'tis a spirit's nobler task of bliss;
That feels the worth it left, in proofs like this;
That not its own applause, but thine approves;
Whose practice praises, and whose virtue loves;
Who livest to crown departed friends with fame ;
Then dying, late, shalt all thou gavest reclaim. 16
PRINTED BY A. J. VALPY, M.A.
RED LION COURT, FLEET STREET.