PREFACE.

press sentiments that are calculated to make a useful impression on the heart, and dispose the mind to ponder on the brevity of life, on the imperfections and unsatisfactory nature of our enjoyments, and on the instability of all earthly possessions. They tell us, that

“Though we wade in wealth or soar in fame, Earth's highest station ends in-Here he lies!"

As I have endeavoured to make it a useful and instructive collection, I am not without hopes that its general merit, is such as, will secure it a favourable reception from the public, and dispose the reader to consider the time usefully spent in its perusal.

Hall-Side, Kirklinton, Į

August 1, 1821. S

Epitaphs, &c.

WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

ON WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

THE cloud capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, and all which it inherits, shall dissolve, And like the baseless fabric of a vision

Leave not a wreck behind.

JAMES THOMSON,

Etatis 48, obit 27, August, 1748.

Tutor'd by thee, sweet poetry, exalts her voice to Ages, and informs the page, with music, image, Sentiment, and thought, never to die!

This Monument was erected in 1762.

B

JOHN SHEFFIELD, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM,

Died Feb. 24, 1720, in the 74th year of his age.

I liv'd doubtful, not dissolute,
I die unresolv'd, not unresign'd.

Ignorance and error are incident to human nature.
I trust in an Almighty and all good God.
O! thou Being of Beings, have compassion on me.
For my king often, for my country forever.

TO THE MEMORY OF

NICHOLAS ROWE, Esq.

Who died in 1718, aged 45;

And of Charlotte, his only Daughter, wife of Henry Fane, Esq. who inherited her father's spirit, and amiable in her own innocence and beauty, died in the 23d year of her age, 1739.

Thy reliques Rowe! to this sad shrine we trust,
And near thy Shakspeare place thy honor'd bust.
Oh! next him skill'd to draw the tender tear,
For never heart felt passion more sincere ;
To nobler sentiments to fire the brave,
For never Briton more disdain'd a slave.
Peace to thy gentle shade and endless rest,
Blest in thy genius, in thy love too blest!
And blest, that timely from our scene remov'd
Thy soul enjoys that liberty it lov'd!

To these so mourn'd in death, so lov'd in life,
The childless parent, and the widow'd wife,
With tears inscribe this monumental stone,
That holds their ashes, and expects her own.

Mr. Rowe was Poet Laureat and author of several fine Tragedies.

JOHN GAY,

Died December 4, 1732, aged 45.

The short Epitaph on the front was written by himself.

Life is a jest, and all things show it:
I thought so once, but now I know it.

Underneath are these verses by Mr. POPE-

Of manners gentle, of affections mild,
In wit a man, simplicity a child;

With native humour tempering virtuous rage,
Form'd to delight at once, and lash the age;
Above temptation in a low estate,

And uncorrupted e'en among the great:
A safe companion and an easy friend,
Unblam'd through life, lamented in thy end;
These are thy honors;-not that there 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!

TO THE MEMORY OF

MARY HOPE,

Who died at Brook-Hall,

In the County of Northampton,

On the 25th of June, 1767,

Aged 25 years,

And whose remains lie in the neighbouring church at Norton; this stone, an unavailing tribute of affection, is by her husband erected and inscribed.

She was the only daughter of Eliab Breton, of Torty-Hall, Middlesex, Esq. and was married to John Hope, of London, Merchant, to whom she left three infant sons, Charles, John, and William.

Tho' low on earth, her beauteous form decay'd,
My faithful wife, my lov'd Maria's laid,
In sad remembrance, the afflicted raise

No

pompous tomb inscrib'd with venal praise. To statesmen, warriors, and to kings belong The trophy'd sculpture and the poet's song; And these the proud expiring often claim, Their wealth, bequeathing to record their name. But humble virtue, stealing to the dust, Heeds not our lays, or monumental bust. To name her virtues ill befits my grief; What was my bliss can now give no relief; A husband mourns-the rest let friendship tell; Fame spread her worth--a husband knew it well.