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AnEviTAPH on Mr. Dove, an apothecary; 'wbo unsortunasely murdered himself by canvajsing at Elections.

Here lie

Sequester'd from the various calamities of lise,

The remains of Benjamin Dove,

Doctor, and dealer in politics;

Whose courage and intrepidity exposed him

Lto many dangers and difficulties, and at

last to death itself; sor on the 26th

of May, 1754, he fell a vit?im,

not to the sword, but to the glass.

He was in all respects a truly worthy man;

A kind and steady sriend,

A generous benefactor,.

A warm patriot, An agreeable companion, A cutter of jokes, And a great canvasser at elections. In the most corrupt and abandon'd age, He maintain'd his independency, Disdain'd every bribe; Nir cou'd the arts and insinuations of the wicked Induce him once to play The part of a Jack-of-both sides; But ever six'd and determin'd in his choice, And aided by the arms of Bacchus, He gain'J many proselytes to the cause For which he died. He was a good Christian in his day, And rather inclin'd to the Church than to the Synagogue; A man of Virtue, Tho* a lover of the Wenches. Some faults he had, But none that his friends could see, Or that his enemies can remember. Farcwel, dear friend, thy glass is run; Death has a Finis Fix d to Fun. Those jokes ivhich o'er the mantling bowl Regal'd the heart, and cheapd the fouly And gain d thy patriot friend a <vote, Must, <with thy virtues, be forgot: Yet, of a thousand, one in ten, Mayshrng, perhaps, and cryPoor Ben!

We shall conclude this species of poetry with a droll and fatirical Epitaph written by Mr. Pope, which we transcribed from a monument in Lord Cobbams gardens at Sttno in Buckingham/hire.

To the Memory

of

Sicnior. FlDO,

An Italian of good Extraction;

Who came into England,

Not to bite us, like most of his Countrymen,

But to gain an honest Livelyhood.

He hunted not after Fame,

Yet acquir'd it;

Regardless of the Praife of his Friends,

but most sensible of their Love.

Tho' he liv'd amongst the Great,

He neither learnt nor flatter'd any Vice.'

He was no Bigot,

Tho' he doubted of none of the 39 Articles.

And, if to follow Nature,

and to respect the Laws of Society,

be Philofophy,

he was a persect Philosupher;

a faithsul Friend,

an agreeable Companion,

a loving Husband,

distinguish'd by a numerous Offspring,

all which he liv'd to see take good Courses.

In his old Age he retired

to the House of a Clergyman in the Country,

where he sinished his earthly Race,

and died an Honour and an Example to the whole Species.

Reader,

This Stone is guiltless of Flattery,

for he to whom it is infcrib'd

was not a Man,

but a Grey-hound.

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T H E Elegy is a mournful and plaintive, but yet a sweet
and engaging kind of poem. It was first invented
to bewail the death of a friend, and afterwards us'd to ex-
press the complaints of lovers, or any other doleful and
melancholy subjećt. In process of time not only matters
of grief, but joy, wishes, prayers, expostulations, reproaches,
admonitions, and almost every other subject, were admitted
into Elegy; however, funeral lamentations and affairs of love
feem most agreeable to its character.
The plan of an Elegy, as indeed of all other poems,
ought to be made before a line is written ; or else the author
will ramble in the dark, and his verses have no dependance
on each other. No epigrammatic points or conceits, none of
those fine things which most people are fo fond of in every
fort of poem, can be allow'd in this, but must give place to
nobler beauties, those of Nature and the Paffions. Elegy
rejects whatever is facetious, fatirica', or majestic, and is
content to be plain, decent, and unaffected ; yet in this
humble state is she sweet and engaging, elegant and attractive.
This poem is adorn'd with frequent commiferations, complaints,
exclamations, addreffes to things or persons, short and proper
digreffions, allustans, comparisons, pro/poparias or feigned per-
fons, and fometimes with fhort descriptions. The dićtion
ought to be free from any har/%neß ; neat, ea/, perspicuous,
expressive of the manners, tender, and pathetic ; and the
numbers should be smooth and flowing, and captivate the ear
with their uniform sweetness and delicacy.

For an example of a good and mournful Elegy, I shall infert one written by Mr. Pope, which will give the reader a just idea of the tender and plaintive character of this kind of poem.

To the memory of an umfortunate LAD Y.

What beck’ning ghost along the moonlight fhade Invites my step, and points to yonder glade ?

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'Tis she! but why that bleeding bofom gor'd?

Why dimly gleams the visionary sword?
Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,
Is it, in heav'n, a crime to lave too well.'
To bear too tender, or too sirm a heart,
To act a lover's, or a Roman s part?
Is there no bright reversion in the flcy,
For those who greatly think, or bravely die?

Why bade ye else, ye Pow'rs! her foul aspire
Above the vulgar flight of low desire?
Ambition sirst sprang from your blest abodes,
The glorious fault of Angels and of Gods:
Thence to their images on earth it flows,
And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows f
Most fouls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age,
Dull, sullen pris'ners in the body's cage:
Dim lights of lise, that burn a length of years,
Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres;
Like eastern kings a lazy state they keep,
And close consin'd in their own palace sleep.

From these perhaps (ere nature bade her die)
Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying flcy.
As into air the purer spirits flow,
And sep'rate from their kindred dregs below;
So flew the suul to its congenial place,
Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.

But thou, false guardian of a charge too good,
Thou mean deserter of thy brother's blood!
See on these ruby lips the trembling breath,
These cheeks, now fading at the blast of death;
Cold is that breast which warm'd the world besore,
And those love-darting eyes must roll no more.
Thus, if eternal justice rules the ball,
Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall:
On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,
And frequent herscs {hall besiege your gates.
There passengers shall stand, and pointing fay,
(While the long sun'rals blacken ail the way)
Lo these were they whose fouls the furies steel'd,
And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield.
Thus unlamented pals the proud away,
The gaze of fools, and pageants of a day!

So perifh all, whose breast ne'er learnt to glow
For others good, or melt at others woe.

What can atone (oh ever-injur'd shade !)
Thy fate unpity'd, and thy rites' unpaid?
No friends complaint, no kind domestic tear
Pleas'd thy pale ghost, or grac'd thy mournsul bier;
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd.
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,
By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd!
What tho' no friends in fable weeds appear,
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of woe
To midnight dances, and the public show;
What tho' no facred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb;
Yet shall thy grave with rifing flow'rs be drest,
And-the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the sirst roses of the year shall blow;
While Angels with their silver wings o'ershade
The ground, now facred by thy reliques made.

So peacesul rests, without a stone, a name,
What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame:
How lov'd, now honour'd once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot;
A heap of dust alone remains of thee,
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!

Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung,
Deaf the praisM ear, and mute the tunesul tongue.
Ev'n he, whose suul now melts in mournsul lays,
Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays:
Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part,
And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart:
Lise's idle business at one gasp be o'er,
The muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more!

But of Elegies on the subject of death, this by Mr. Cray is one of the best that has appeared in our language, and may be justly esteem'd a masterpiece.

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