Where British sighs from dying Wyndham stole, And the bright flame was shot through Marchmont's
Let such, such only, tread this sacred floor,
Who dare to love their country, and be poor.
On receiving from the Right Hon. Lady Frances Shirley, a Standish and two Pens.
YES, I behold th' Athenian queen
Descend in all her sober charms;
"And take, (she said, and smil'd serene,)
Take at this hand celestial arms:
"Secure the radiant weapons wield;
This golden lance shall guard desert,
And if a vice dares keep the field,
This steel shall stab it to the heart."
Aw'd, on my bended knees I fell,
Receiv'd the weapons of the sky,
And dipp'd them in the sable well,
The fount of fame or infamy.
"What well? what weapon? (Flavia cries,}
A standish, steel, and golden pen!
It came from Bertrand's, not the skies;
I gave it you to write again.
"But friend! take heed whom thou attack;
You'll bring a house (I mean of peers)
Red, blue, and green, nay, white and black,
L** and all about your ears.
"You'd write as smooth again on glass,
And run on ivory so glib,
As not to stick at fool or ass,
Nor stop at flattery or fib.
"Athenian queen! and sober charms!
I tell ye, fool! there's nothing in't:
'Tis Venus, Venus gives these arms;→→
In Dryden's Virgil see the print.
'Come, if you'll be a quiet soul, That dares tell neither truth or lies, I'll list you in the harmless roll
Of those that sing of these poor eyes."
On Charles Earl of Dorset, in the Church of Withyam, Sussex.
DORSET, the grace of courts, the Muses' pride,
Patron of arts, and judge of nature, died!
The scourge of pride, though sanctified or great,
Of fops his learning, and of knaves in state:
Yet soft in 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 Blackhursts, other Dorsets, shine,
And patriots, still, or poets, deck the line.
On Sir William Trumbal, 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, bnt 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 zeal for truth;
A generous faith, from superstition free;
A love to 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 in Oxfordshire, 1720.
To this sad shrine, who'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 sorrow mix his own!
On James Craggs, Esq. in Wesminster Abbey.
JACOBUS CRAGGS,
REGI MAGNE BRITANNIE A SECRETIS
ET CONSILIIS SANCTIORIBUS,
Principis Pariter ac Populi Amor at 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 saered, 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 denics.
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. Robert Digby, and his Sister Mary, 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 to 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 Heaven's eternal year is thine,
Go, and exalt thy moral to divine.
And thou, bless'd maid! attendant on his doom, Pensive has 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 gvief:
These little rites, a stone, a verse receive;
'Tis all a father, all a friend can give!
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