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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 denies.
VI. Or Mrs. Corbet, who died of a cancer in ber breasi.
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,
Heaven, as its purest gold, by tortures try'd,
The saint sustain'd it, but the woman dy'd.
VII. On the Monument of the Hon. Robert Digby, and of his
sister Mary, erected by their fa:ber the Lord Digby, in the church of Sherborne, in Dorsetsbire, 1727.
Go! fair example of untainted youth,
Of modest wisdom, and pacific truth:
Compos’d in suff'rings, and in joy sedate,
Good without noise, without pretension great:
Just of thy word, in ev'ry 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 Heav'n's eternal year is thine ;
Go, and exali thy moral to divine.
And thou, bless'd maid! at:endant on his doom,
Pensive hast 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! 15
Go, where to love and to enjoy are one!
Yet take these tears, mortality's relief,
And till we share your joys, forgive cur grief:
These little rites, a stone, a verse, receive;
'Tis all a father, all a friend, can give!
VIII. On Sir Godfrey Kneller, in Westminster Abbey, 1723.
Kneller by Heav'n, and not a master, taught,
Whose art was Nature, and whose pictures thought;
Now for two ages having snatch'd from Fate
Whate'er was beauteous, or whate'er was great,
Lies crown'd with princes' honours, poet's lays,
Due to his merit, and brave thirst of praise.
Living, great Naiure fear'd he might outvie
Her works; and, dying, fears herself may die.
IX. On General Henry Withers, in Westminster Abbey. 1729.
HERE, Withers! rest; thou bravest, gentlest, minds
Thy country's friend, but more of human kind.
Oh, born to arms! O worth in youth approv'd!
O soft humanity,
in age belov'd!
For thee the hardy vet’ran drops a tear,
And the gay courtier feels the sigh sincere.
Withers ! adieu; yet not with thee remove
Thy martial spirit, or thy social love!
Amidst corruption, luxury, and rage,
Still leave some antient virtues to our age;
Nor let us say (those English glories gone)
The last true Briton lies beneath this stone.
X. On Mr. Elijah Fenton, at Easthamsted in Berks. 1730.
This modest stone, what few vain marbles can,
May truly say, Here lies an honest man;
A poet bless'd beyond the poet's fate,
Whom Heav'n kept sacred from the proud and great;
Foe to loud praise, and friend to learned ease, 5
Content with science in the vale of peace.
Calmly he look'd on either life, and here
Saw nothing to regret, or there to fear;
From Nature's temp’rate feast rose satisfy'd, 9
Thank'd Heav'n that he had liv’d, and that he dy'd,
XI. On Mr. Gay, in Westminster-Abbey, 1732.
manners gentle, of affections mild;
In wit, a man; simplicity a child:
With native humour temp'ring virtuous rage,
Form’d to delight at once, and lash the age:
Above temptation in a low estate,
And uncorrupted ev'n among the great:
A safe companion, and an easy friend,
Unblam'd thro’ life, lamented in thy end.
These are thy honours ! not that here thy bust
Is mix'd with heroes, or with kings thy dust;
But that the worthy and the good shall say,
Striking their pensive bosoms---Here lies Gay.
XII. Intended for Sir Isaac Newton, in Westminster
Testantur Tempus, Natura, Cælum:
Hoc Marmor Fatetur.
Nature, and Nature's laws lay hid in night;
God said, Let Newton be! and all was light.
XIII. On Dr. Francis Atterbury, Bishop of Rochester, who
died in exile ai Paris, 1732. [His only daughter having expired in his arms, im
mediately after she arrived in France to se e him.]
Yes, we have liv’d---One pang, and then we part!
May heav'n, dear Father! now have all thy heart.
Yet, ah! how once we lov’d, remember still,
Till you are dust like me.
Dear shade! I will: Then mix this dust with thine---O spotless ghost ! O more than fortune, friends, or country lost! Is there on earth one care, one wish beside ? Yes---Save my Country, Heav’n---He said, and
XIV. On Edmund Duke of Buckingham, who died in the
nineteenth year of his age, 1735. If modest youth, with cool reflection crown'd, And ev'ry op'ning 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, 5 Or sadly told how many hopes lie here!