EPITAPHS.

ON

MRS. M. HIGGINS, OF WESTON.

LAURELS may flourish round the conqueror's

tomb, But happiest they who win the world to come : : Believers have a silent field to fight, And their exploits are veil'd from human sight. They, in some nook, where little known they dwell, Kneel, pray in faith, and rout the hosts of hell; Eternal triumphs crown their toils divine, And all those triumphs, Mary, now are thine.

ON MR. HAMILTON. ' Pause here, and think : a monitory rhyme Demands one moment of thy fleeting time.

Consult life's silent clock, thy bounding vein ; Seems it to say—Health here has long to reign?' Hast thou the vigour of thy youth? an eye That beams delight? a heart untaught to'sigh? Yet fear. Youth ofttimes, healthful and at ease, Anticipates a day it never sees ; And many a tomb, like Hamilton's, aloud Exclaims, ‘Prepare thee for an early shroud.'

ON FOP,
A Bog belonging to Lady Throckmorton.

AUGUST, 1792.
Though once a puppy, and though Fop by name,
Here moulders one whose bones some honour

claim. No sycophant, although of spaniel race, And though no hound, a martyr to the chaseYe squirrels, rabbits, leverets, rejoice, Your haunts no longer echo to his voice; This record of his fate exulting view, He died worn out with vain pursuit of you.

• Yes (the indignant shade of Fop replies)-And worn with vain pursuit Man also dies.'

ON A HARE.
HERE lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue,

Nor swifter greyhound follow,
Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew,

Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo,
Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,

Who, nursed with tender care,
And to domestic bounds confined,

Was still a wild Jack-hare.

Though duly from my hand he took

His pittance every night, He did it with a jealous look,

And, when he could, would bite,

His diet was of wheaten bread,

And milk, and oats, and straw ;
Thistles, or lettuces instead,
With sand to scour his maw.

On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,

On pippins' russet peel,
And, when his juicy salads fail'd,

Sliced carrot pleased him well.

A Turkey carpet was his lawn,

Whereon he loved to bound, To skip and gambol like a fawn,

And swing his rump around.

His frisking was at evening hours,

For then he lost his fear,
But most before approaching showers,

Or when a storm drew near.

Eight years and five round-rolling moons

He thus saw steal away, Dozing out all his idle noons,

And every night at play,

I kept him for his humour's sake;

For he would oft beguile My heart of thoughts that made it ache,

And force me to a smile.

But now beneath his walnut shade

He finds his long last home,
And waits, in snug concealment laid,

Till gentler Puss shall come.

AN EPISTLE TO THE REV. W. BULL. 285
He, still more aged, feels the shocks,

From which no care can save,
And, partner once of Tiney's box,

Must soon partake his grave.

AN

EPISTLE TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULL.

MY DEAR FRIEND,

If reading verse be your delight,
'Tis mine as much, or more, to write;
But what we would, so weak is man,
Lies oft remote from what we can.
For instance, at this very time,
I feel a wish, by cheerful rhyme,
To sooth my friend, and had I power
To cheat him of an anxious hour,
Not meaning (for I must confess
What 'twere but folly to suppress)
His pleasure or his good alone,
But squinting partly at my own.
But though the sun is flaming high
I'the centre of yon arch, the sky,
And he had once, and who but he?
The name for setting genius free;
Yet whether poets of past days
Yielded him undeserved praise,
And he, by no uncommon lot,
Was famed for virtues he had not;
Or whether, which is like enough,
His highness may have taken huff;

286 AN EPISTLE TO THE REV. W. BULL.

So seldom sought by invocation,
Since it has been the reigning fashion
To disregard his inspiration,
I seem no brighter in my wits,
For all the radiance he emits,
Than if I saw through midnight vapour
The glimmering of a farthing taper.
Oh, for a succedaneum then
To'accelerate a creeping pen ;
Oh, for a ready succedaneum,
Quod caput, cerebrum et cranium
Pondere liberet exoso,
Et morbo jam caliginoso!
'Tis here; this oval box' well fill'd
With best tobacco, finely millid,
Beats all Antycira's pretences
To disengage the encumber'd senses.

Oh Nymph of Transatlantic fame,
Where'er thine haunt, whate'er thy name,
Whether reposing on the side
Of Oroonoko's spacious tide,
Or listening with delight not small
To Niagara's distant fall,
'Tis thine to 'cherish and to feed
The pungent nose-refreshing weed :
Which, whether pulverized it gain
A speedy passage to the brain,
Or whether touch'd with fire, it rise
In circling eddies to the skies,
Does thought more quicken and refine
Than all the breath of all the Nine-
Forgive the bard, if bard he be,
Whọ once too wantonly made free