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THIS tomb inscrib'd to gentle Parnell's name,
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.
What heart but feels his sweetly moral lay,
That leads to truth thro' pleasure's flowery way?
Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid;
And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.
Needless to him the tribute we bestow,

The transitory breath of fame below:
More lasting rapture from his works shall rise,
While converts thank their poet in the skies.


HERE lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,
Who long was a bookseller's hack;

He led such a damnable life in this world,
I don't think he'll wish to come back.

1 From The Haunch of Venison, &c. 1776.-P. C.

2 This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublin; but, having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot soldier. Growing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in the newspapers. [This epitaph is an imitation of the French, (La Mort du Sieur Etienne,) or of an epigram in Swift's Miscellanies, xiii. 372.-FORSTER.]


WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy?
What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom, is-to die.

1 See Vicar of Wakefield, c. xxiv.





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Ан me! when shall I

marry me?

Lovers are plenty, but fail to relieve me.
He, fond youth, that could carry me,
Offers to love, but means to deceive me.
But I will rally, and combat the ruiner:

Not a look, not a smile shall my passion discover.
She that gives all to the false one pursuing her,
Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover.

1 Sir, I send you a small production of the late Dr. Goldsmith, which has never been published, and which might perhaps have been totally lost, had I not secured it. He intended it as a song in the character of Miss Hardcastle, in his admirable comedy of She Stoops to Conquer;' but it was left out, as Mrs. Bulkley, who played the part, did not sing. He sung it himself in private companies very agreeably. The tune is a pretty Irish air, called The Humours of Balamagairy,' to which he told me he found it very difficult to adapt words; but he has succeeded very happily in these few lines. As I could sing the tune, and was fond of them, he was so good as to give me them, about a year ago, just as I was leaving London, and bidding him adieu for that season, little apprehending that it was a last farewell. I preserve this little relic, in his own handwriting, with an affectionate care. — - I am, Sir,

Your humble Servant,



WEEPING, murmuring, complaining,
Lost to every gay delight;
Myra, too sincere for feigning,
Fears th' approaching bridal night.

Yet why impair thy bright perfection
Or dim thy beauty with a tear?
Had Myra followed my direction,
She long had wanted cause of fear.


THE wretch condemn'd with life to part,

Still, still on hope relies;

And every pang that rends the heart

Bids expectation rise.

Hope, like the glimmering taper's light,

Adorns and cheers the way;

And still, as darker grows the night,

Emits a brighter ray.

'See The Bee, No. iii. Imitated from the French of Saint Pavin, whose poems were collectively edited in 1759.—P. C. 2 [See the Oratorio of The Captivity.]


O MEMORY! thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain;
To former joys recurring ever,
And turning all the past to pain;

Thou, like the world, the opprest oppressing,
Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe!
And he who wants each other blessing,
In thee must ever find a foe.

1 See the Oratorio of The Captivity.

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