He could no longer work, nor fight, what then?
He left the world, and faintly cry'd-amen.

ON GEORGE FREDERICK HANDEL, Esq.

The statue of this great master of music is finely executed, and Roubiliac's last performance: his left arm rests on a group of musical instruments, and by the attitude, the figure seems to attend to the harmony of an angel playing on a harp on the back ground. The book of the Messiah lies open, in that part where is the muchadmired air,

"I know that my Redeemer liveth."

He died April 14, 1759, aged 57

In the midst of the performance of his Lent Oratorio of the Messiah, nature exhausted, he dropt his head upon the keys of the organ he was playing upon, and with difficulty was raised up again. He recovers his spirits, aud goes on managing the performance till the whole was finished. He was carried home, and shortly after died.

To melt the soul, to captivate the ear, (Angels such melody might deign to hear) To anticipate on earth, the joys of heav'n, 'Twas Handel's task: to him that pow'r was giv'n. Ah! when he late attun'd Messiah's praise With sounds celestial, with melodious lays; A last farewell his languid looks exprest,

And thus, me thinks, th' enraptur'd crow'd addrest:

"Adieu, my dearest friends! and also you,
Joint sons of sacred harmony adieu!
Apollo whisp'ring prompts me to retire,
And bids me join the bright seraphic choir:
"O for Elijah's Carr!" great Handel cry'd:
Messiah heard his voice-and Handel dy'd.

When Handel was only nineteen years of age, he took a journe to Italy. After staying about a year in Florence, he went to Venice, where he is said to have been first discovered at a masquerade. He was playing on a harpsichord in his visor, when Scarlatti, a famous performer, cried out that the person who played could be none but the famous Saxon, or the

Devil.

With regard to the character of this most eminent musician, he is universally allowed to have been a great epicure: in his temper he was very haughty, but was seldom or ever guilty of mean actions. His pride was uniform; he was not by turns a tyrant and a slave. He appears to have had a most extravagant love for liberty and independance; insomuch, that he would, for the sake of liberty, do things otherwise the most prejudical to his own interest. He was liberal even when poor, and remembered his former friends when he was rich. His musical powers can perhaps be best expressed by Arbuthnot's reply to Pope, who seriously asked his opinion of him as a musician; "conceive said he the highest you can of his abilities, and they are much beyond any thing you can conceive"

From Cowley.

Here lies the great; false marble, tell me where?
Nothing but poor and sordid dust lies here.

ON DR. MEAD.

His gen'rous mind's to latest ages known
From others works; his learning from his own,

ON THE REV. WILLIAM GOODWIN,

Fellow of Eton College,

Vicar of St. Nicholas, Bristol,-Who died June, 1747.

Here lies a head that often ach'd;

Here lie two hands that always shak'd;

Here lies a brain of odd conceit;

Here lies a heart that often beat;
Here lie two eyes that daily wept,
And in the night but seldom slept;
Here lies a tongue that whining talk'd
Here lie two feet that feebly walk'd;
Here lie the midriff, and the breast,
With loads of indigestion prest,

Here lies the liver full of bile,
That ne'er secreted proper chyle;

Here lie the bowels, human tripes,
Tortur'd with wind, and twisting gripes;
Here lies that livid dab, the spleen,
The source of life's sad tragic scene;
That left side weight that clogs the blood,
And stagnates nature's circling flood;

Here lie the nerves, so often twitch'd
With painful cramps, and poignant stitch;
Here lies the back, oft rack'd with pains,
Corroding kidnies, loins, and reins;
Here lies the skin per scurvy fed,
With pimples, and eruptions red;
Here lies the man, from top to toe,
That fabric fam'd for pain and woe;
He caught a cold, but colder death
Compress'd his lungs and stop'd his breath;
The organs could no longer go,
Because the bellows ceas'd to blow;

Thus I dissect this honest friend,
Who ne'er till death was at wit's end;
For want of spirits here he fell;
With higher spirits let him dwell,

In future state of peace and love,
Where just men's perfect spirits move.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,

Born April, 1564, died 23 April, 1616, aged 53,

Buried in the north isle at Stratford, on Avon.

Good friend for Jesus sake, forbear

To dig the dust enclosed here.

Blest be the man that spares these stones,

And curst be he that moves my bones.

Westminster Abbey.

The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like the baseless fabric of a vision,
Leave not a wreck behind.

A Bard's Epitaph.

Is there a whim inspired fool,

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,

Let him draw near;

And owre this grassy heap sing dool,

And drap a tear.

Is there a Bard of rustic song,

Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,

That weekly this area throng,

O, pass not by !

But with a frater feeling strong,

Here heave a sigh.

Is there a man, whose judgment clear,
Ćan others teach the course to steer,

Yet runs, himself, life's mad career,

Wild as the wave;

Here pause-and, through the starting tear,

Survey this grave.