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XIII. On Dr. Francis Atterbury, Bishop of Rochester, who died in exile at Paris, 1732.

[His only daughter having expired in his arms, immediately after she arrived in France to se e him.]

DIALOGUE.

SHE.

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.

HE.

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 dy'd.

XIV. On Edmund Duke of Buckingham, who died in the nineteenth year of his age, 1735.

Ir 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,
Or sadly told how many hopes lie here!

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The living virtue now had shone approv'd;
The senate heard him, and his country lov'd.
Yet softer honours, and less noisy fame
Attend the shade of gentle Buckingham,
In whom a race, for courage fam'd and art,
Ends in the milder merit of the heart;
And chiefs, or sages, long to Britain giv'n,
Pays the last tribute of a saint to heav'n.

10.

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XV. For one who would not be buried in Westminster-Abbey.

HEROES and kings! your distance keep;

In peace let one poor poet sleep,

Who never flatter'd folks like you:
Let Horace blush, and Virgil too.

XVI. Another on the same.

UNDER this marble, or under this sill,
Or under this turf, or ev'n what they will;
Whatever an heir, or a friend in his stead,
Or any good creature shall lay o'er my head,
Lies one who ne'er car'd, and still cares not a pin
What they said, or may say, of the mortal within;
But who, living and dying, serene still and free,
Trusts in God, that as well as he was, he shall be.

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