His saltem accumulem donis, et fungar inani
Munere!
ON CHARLES EARL OF DORSET,
In the Church of Withyam, in Sussex.
DORSET, the grace of courts, the Muses' pride,
Patron of arts, and judge of nature, died.
The scourge of pride, though sanctified or great,
Of fops in learning, and of knaves in state:
Yet soft his nature, though severe his lay;
His anger moral, and his wisdom gay.
Bless'd satirist! who touch'd the mean so true,
As show'd vice had his hate and pity too.
Bless'd courtier! who could king and country please,
Yet sacred keep his friendships, and his ease.
Bless'd peer! his great forefathers' every grace
Reflecting, and reflected in his race;
Where other Buckhursts, other Dorsets shine,
And patrons still, or poets, deck the line.
ON SIR WILLIAM TRUMBALL,
One of the principal Secretaries of State to King William the Third, who, having resigned his place, died in his Retirement at Easthamstead, in Berk shire, 1716.
A PLEASING form; a firm, yet cautious mind;
Sincere, though prudent; constant, yet resign'd;
Honour unchanged, a principle profess'd,
Fix'd to one side, but moderate to the rest :
An honest courtier, yet a patriot too;
Just to his prince, and to his country true :
Fill'd with the sense of age, the fire of youth,
A scorn of wrangling, yet a zeal for truth:
A generous faith, from superstition free;
A love to peace, and hate of tyranny:
Such this man was; who now from earth removed,
At length enjoys that liberty he loved.
ON THE HON. SIMON HARCOURT,
Only Son of the Lord Chancellor Harcourt, at the
Church of Stanton-Harcourt, in Oxfordshire, 1720
To this sad shrine, whoe'er thou art, draw near;
Here lies the friend most loved, the son most dear;
Who ne'er knew joy but friendship might divide,
Or gave his father grief but when he died.
How vain is reason, eloquence how weak!
If Pope must tell what Harcourt cannot speak.
Oh let thy once-loved friend inscribe thy stone,
And with a father's sorrows mix his own!
ON JAMES CRAGGS, ESQ.
In Westminster Abbey.
JACOBUS CRAGGS,
REGI MAGNÆ BRITANNIÆ A SECRETIS,
ET CONSILIIS SANCTIORIBUS,
PRINCIPIS PARITER AC POPULI AMOR ET
DELICIE
VIXIT, TITULIS ET INVIDIA MAJOR,
ANNOS, HEU PAUCOS, XXXV.
OB. FEB. XVI. MDCCXX.
STATESMAN, yet friend to truth! of soul sincerc, In action faithful, and in honour clear!
Who broke no promise, served no private end,
Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend;
Ennobled by himself, by all approved,
Praised, wept, and honour'd, by the muse he loved
INTENDED FOR MR. ROWE,
In Westminster Abbey.
THY reliques, Rowe, to this fair urn we trust,
And, sacred, place by Dryden's awful dust:
Beneath a rude and nameless stone he lies,
To which thy tomb shall guide inquiring eyes.
Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest!
Bless'd in thy genius, in thy love too bless'd!
One grateful woman to thy fame supplies
What a whole thankless land to his denies.
Who died of a Cancer in her Breast.
HERE rests a woman, good without pretence,
Bless'd with plain reason, and with sober sense;
No conquest she, but o'er herself, desired,
No arts essay'd, but not to be admired.
Passion and pride were to her soul unknown,
Convinced that virtue only is our own.
So unaffected, so composed a mind;
So firm, yet soft; so strong, yet so refined;
Heaven, as its purest gold, by tortures tried,
The saint sustain'd it, but the woman died.
ON THE MONUMENT OF THE
HONOURABLE ROBERT DIGBY,
AND OF HIS SISTER MARY,
Erected by their Father, the Lord Digby, in the Church of Sherborne, in Dorsetshire, 1727.
Go! fair example of untainted youth,
Of modest wisdom, and pacific truth;
Composed in sufferings, and in joy sedate,
Good without noise, without pretension great:
Just of thy word, in every 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 heaven's eternal year is thine,
Go, and exalt thy moral to divine!
And thou, bless'd maid! attendant on his doom,
Pensive hast follow'd to the silent tomb,
Steer'd the same course to the same quiet shore,
Not parted .ong, and now to part no more!
Go then, where only bliss sincere is known!
Go, where to love and to enjoy are one!
Yet, take these tears, mortality's relief,
And till we share your joys, forgive our grief
These little rites, a stone, a verse, receive;
"Tis all a father, all a friend, can give !
ON SIR GODFREY KNELLER,
In Westminster Abbey, 1723.
KNELLER, by Heaven, 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, poets' lays, Due to his merit, and brave thirst of praise.
Living, great nature fear'd he might outvie Her works; and, dying, fears herself may die.
ON GENERAL HENRY WITHERS,
In Westminster Abbey, 1729.
HERE, Withers, rest! thou bravest, gentlest mind,
Thy country's friend, but more of human-kind.
O born to arms! O worth in youth approved!
O soft humanity, in age beloved!
For thee the hardy veteran 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 ancient virtues to our age:
Nor let us say (those English glories gone)
The last true Briton lies beneath this stone.
ON MR. ELIJAH FENTON,
At Easthamstead, 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 Heaven kept sacred from the proud and great
Foe to loud praise, and friend to learned ease,
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 temperate feast rose satisfied,
Chank'd Heaven that he had lived, and that he died
ON MR. GAY,
In Westminster Abbey, 1730.
Or manners gentle, of affections mild; n 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,
Unblamed through 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
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