Then, with no fiery, throbbing pain,
No cold gradation of decay,
Death broke at once the vital chain,
And forc'd his soul the nearest way.
EPITAPH ON SIR THOMAS HANMER, BART.
THOU who survey'st these walls with curious eye,
Pause at this tomb where Hanmer's ashes lie ;
His various worth through varied life attend,
And learn his virtues, while thou mourn'st his end.
His force of genius burn'd in early youth,
With thirst of knowledge, and with love of truth;
His learning, join'd with each endearing art,
Charm'd every ear, and gain'd on every heart.
Thus early wise, th' endanger'd realm to aid,
His country call'd him from the studious shade;
In life's first bloom his public toils began,
At once commenc'd the senator and man.
In business dexterous, weighty in debate,
Thrice ten long years he labour'd for the state;
In every speech persuasive wisdom flow'd,
In every act refulgent virtue glow'd ;
Suspended faction ceas'd from rage and strife,
To hear his eloquence, and praise his life.
Resistless merit fix'd the senate's choice,
Who hail'd him Speaker with united voice.
Illustrious age! how bright thy glories shone,
When Hanmer fill'd the chair--and Anne the throne!
Then when dark arts obscur'd each fierce debate,
When mutual frauds perplex'd the maze of state,
Then moderator firmly mild appear'd-
Beheld with love-with veneration heard.
This task perform'd-he sought no gainful post, Nor wish'd to glitter at his country's cost; Strict on the right he fix'd his steadfast eye, With temperate zeal, and wise anxiety; Nor e'er from Virtue's paths was lur'd aside, To pluck the flowers of pleasure or of pride. Her gifts despis'd, Corruption blush'd and fled, And Fame pursued him where Conviction led. Age call'd, at length, his active mind to rest, With honour sated, and with cares opprest; To letter'd ease retir'd and honest mirth, To rural grandeur and domestic worth: Delighted still to please mankind, or mend, The patriot's fire yet sparkled in the friend. Calm Conscience then, his former life survey'd, And recollected toils endear'd the shade, Till Nature call'd him to the general doom, And Virtue's sorrow dignified his tomb.
PHILLIPS! whose touch harmonious could remove
The pangs of guilty power, and hapless love,
Rest here, distress'd by poverty no more,
Find here that calm thou gav'st so oft before;
Sleep undisturb'd within this peaceful shrine,
Till angels wake thee with a note like thine.
Phillips was a travelling fiddler up and down Wales, and greatly celebrated for his performance.
EPITAPH FOR HOGARTH.
THE hand of him here torpid lies,
That drew th' essential form of grace;
Here clos'd in death th' attentive eyes,
That saw the manners in the face.
ANOTHER ON HOGARTH.
FAREWELL, great painter of mankind,
Who reach'd the noblest point of art;
Whose pictur'd morals charm the mind,
And through the eye correct the heart!
If genius fire thee, reader, stay;
If nature touch thee, drop a tear:
If neither move thee, turn away,
For Hogarth's honour'd dust lies here.
EPITAPH ON SIR ISAAC NEWTON.
APPROACH, ye wise of soul, with awe divine:
'Tis Newton's name that consecrates this shrine !
That son of knowledge, whose meridian ray
Kindled the gloom of nature into day!
That soul of science, that unbounded mind,
That genius which ennobled human kind!
Confess'd supreme of men, his country's pride;
And half esteem'd an angel-till he died:
Who in the eye of Heaven like Enoch stood,
And through the paths of knowledge walk'd with
Whose fame extends, a sea without a shore!
Who but forsook one world to know the laws of Anonymous.
EPITAPH ON JAMES QUIN, IN BATH CATHEDRAL.
THAT tongue, which set the table in a roar,
And charm'd the public ear, is heard no more:
Clos'd are those eyes, the harbingers of wit,
Which spoke before the tongue what Shakspeare
Cold are those hands which living, were stretch'd forth,
At friendship's call, to succour modest worth.
Here lies James Quin! Deign reader to be taught,
Whate'er thy strength of body, force of thought,
In nature's happiest mould however cast,
To this complexion thou must come at last.
ON AN INFANT.
To the dark and silent tomb
Soon I hasted from the womb;
Scarce the dawn of life began,
Ere I measur'd out my span.
I no smiling pleasures knew,
I no gay delights could view ;
Joyless sojourner was I,
Only born to weep and die.
Happy infant, early blest!
Rest, in peaceful slumber rest;
Early rescu'd from the cares
Which increase with growing years.
No delights are worth thy stay,
Smiling as they seem, and gay;
Short and sickly are they all,
Hardly tasted ere they pall.
All our gayety is vain,
All our laughter is but pain:
Lasting only and divine,
Is an innocence like thine.
EPITAPH ON MR. AIKMAN AND HIS ONLY SON, WHO WERE BOTH INTERRED IN THE SAME GRAVE.
DEAR to the wise and good, disprais'd by none,
Here sleep in peace the father and the son;
By virtue, as by nature, close allied,
The painter's genius, but without the pride;
Worth unambitious, wit afraid to shine,
Honour's clear light, and Friendship's warmth divine.
The son, fair rising knew too short a date;
But, oh! how more severe the parent's fate!
He saw him torn, untimely, from his side,
Felt all a father's anguish, wept and died!
EPITAPH ON A YOUNG LADY.
THIS humble grave though no proud structures grace,
Yet Truth and Goodness sanctify the place;
Yet blameless Virtue, that adorn'd thy bloom,
Lamented maid! now weeps upon thy tomb.
|