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MY OWN EPITAPH.

Guiltless he met grim Death, and sporting;
The farce is finish'd, drop the curtain;
The bubble's burst, the whim is ended,
The rattle either lost or mended.

HERE Dermody, oddest of odd compositions ;
By Virtue and Vice, two contending physicians,
Most strangely work'd up; who of each wore the fetter;
Just loos'd from this world, lies in hopes of a better :
If no blessing ensue he can't suffer a curse;
As Fortune and Fate could not find out a worse.
All formal rule slighting of plain mortals above;
The pole-star of friendship, the comet of love;
Though sadly distrest, a vile squand'rer of pelf,
For others he felt what he felt not for self.

Most injur'd by folks whom he most wish'd to please;
To preferment no foe, but a friend to his ease;
Unnotic'd for talents he had, and forgot,

But most famously notic'd for faults he had not;

Though meek as a lamb, deem'd the lion of satire;
The madman of rage and the fool of good-nature;
Whenever to praise he sometimes condescended,
They squeez'd out sly rubs which were never intended:
No deist, no drunkard, no rake at a gypsy;
Yet often both swearing, and courting, and tipsy.
As an author, conceited when once he began ;
Facetious, and social, and free, as a man:

As a man, did I say? when death shifted the scene,
A giant of genius, he was not fifteen.

Him whom living you nourish'd with ink and with bays,

To others the profit, to him the mere praise,

Sage critics and cavilers, take it in head

To burden with praise and with profit when dead;
Oh! now that you
fear nor his smiles nor his lashes,
Be candid for once, and disturb not his ashes.

ELEGIAC STANZAS ON MYSELF.

TO Pleasure's wiles an easy prey,
Beneath this sod a bosom lies;
Yet spare the meek offender's clay,
Nor part with dry averted eyes.

O stranger! if thy wayward lot
Through Folly's heedless maze has led,
Here nurse the true, the tender thought,
And fling the wild flow'r on his head.

For he, by this cold hillock clad,`
Where tall grass twines the pointed stone,
Each gentlest balm of feeling bad,
To sooth all sorrow but his own.

For he, by tuneful Fancy rear'd,
(Though ever-dumb he sleeps below,)
The stillest sigh of anguish heard,
And gave a tear to ev'ry woe.

Oh! place his dear harp by his side,
(His harp, alas! his only hoard ;)

The fairy breeze at even tide

Will trembling kiss each weeping chord.

Oft on yon crested cliff he stood,
When misty twilight stream'd around;
To mark the slowly-heaving flood,
And catch the deep wave's sullen sound.
Oft when the rosy dawn was seen
'Mid blue to gild the blushing steep,
He trac'd o'er yonder margent green
The curling cloud of fragrance sweep.

Oft did he pause, the lark to hear,
With speckled wing, the skies explore;
Oft paus'd to see the slow flock near:
But he shall hear and see no more.

Then, stranger, be his foibles lost;
At such small foibles Virtue smil'd:
Few was their number, large their cost,
For he was Nature's orphan-child.

The graceful drop of pity spare,

(To him the bright drop once belong'd :) Well, well his doom deserves thy care; Much, much he suffer'd, much was wrong'd.

When taught by life its pangs to know, Ah! as thou roam'st the checker'd gloom, Bid the sweet night-bird's numbers flow, And the last sunbeam light his tomb.

FAREWELL TO KILLEIGH.

2

AT last, while you've been heedless napping, Egad, I'm ready just for hopping :

There's neither staying now nor stopping,

But dash away;

Perchance your bard no more may drop in,

To make you gay.

Howe'er, I hope you'll place my head
Upon a column white and red:

Record the witty things I said,

And con each joke:

You will, I wot, be so well-bred,

My hearts of oak.

Oft in the dear lost school convene,

*

Smoke deep your funny gab between ;

While honest John, in doleful teen,+

Boys, I must alter now the scene

Sighs out my name :

And climb to fame.

* Talk.

+ Sound of sorrow.

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