Salisbury Cathedral.

On the Countess Dowager of Pembroke, Sister to Sir Philip Sydney, who died Sep. 25, 1621.

Underneath this sable hearse,

Lies the subject of all verse;

Sydney's sister, Pembroke's mother;
Death e'er thou kill'st such another,
Fair and good, and learn'd as she,
Time shall throw a dart at thee.
Marble piles let no man raise
To her fame,-for after days
Some kind woman, born as she,
Reading this, like Niobe,

Shall turn statue, and become
Both her mourner, and her tomb.

On the wife of Aaron Hill, Esq. who died 1731.

Enough, cold stone!-Suffice her long lov'd name:
Words are too weak to pay her virtue's claim.
Temples, and tombs, and tongues shall waste away;
And pow'r's vain pomp, in mould'ring dust decay;
But e'er mankind a wife more perfect see,
Eternity, O time! shall bury thee.

ON SIR WILLIAM TRUMBAL.

One of the principal secretaries of state to king William III. who having resigned his place, died in his retirement at Easthamsted in Berkshire, 1716.

A pleasing form; a firm, yet cautious mind;
Sincere, tho' prudent; constant, yet resign'd;
Honour unchang'd, a principal profest,

Fix'd to one side, but mod'rate 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 gen'rous faith, from superstition free;
A love to peace, and hate of tyranny;
Such this man was; who now, from earth remov'd,
At length enjoys that liberty he lov❜d.

Westminster Abbey.

(A translation)

JAMES CRAGGS,

Privy counsellor and secretary of state

To the king of Great Britain,

Equally esteem'd and belov'd by
Prince and people,

As indifferent to titles as he was above envy :

His years were few, alas! too few for such a man:

Dying in the 35th year of his age,

On February 14th, 1720,

Statesman, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere,
In action faithful, and in honour clear!

Who broke no promise, serv'd no private end,
Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend,
Ennobled by himself, by all approv'd,

Prais'd, wept, and honour'd by the the muse he lov'd.

Sherborne, Dorsetshire.

On the monument of the honourable Robert Digby, and of his sister Mary, erected by their father the Lord Digby, 1727.

Go! fair example of untainted youth,

Of modest wisdom, and pacifick truth:
Compos'd in suff'rings, and in joy sedate,
Good without noise, without pretension great.
Just of thy word, in ev'ry 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, blest 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 long, 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 MRS. CORBET,

Who died with a Cancer in her Breast.

Here rests a woman, good without pretence,
Blest with plain reason, and with sober sense:
No conquests she, but o'er herself, desir'd,
No arts essay'd, but not to be admir'd.
Passion and pride were to her soul unknown,
Convinc'd that virtue only is our own.
So unaffected, so compos'd a mind;
So firm, yet soft; so strong, yet so refin'd;
Heav'n, as its purest gold, by tortures try'd ;
The saint sustain'd it, but the woman dy'd.

Westminster Abbey.

ON GENERAL HENRY WITHERS, 1729.

Here Withers, rest! thou bravest, gentlest mind, Thy country's friend, but more of human kind,

Oh born to arms! O worth in youth approv'd!
O seft humanity, in age belov'd!

For thee the hardy vet'ran 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 DR. FRANCIS ATTERBURY,

Bishop of Rochester,

Who died in Exile at Paris, 1732.

(His only daughter having expired in his arms, im. mediately after she arrived in France to see him.)

DIALOGUE.

SHE.

Yes, we have liv'd-one pang, and then we part !
May heav'n, dear father! now have all thy heart.
Yet ah! how once we lov'd, remember still,
Till you are dust like me.

HE.

Dear shade! I will :

Then mix this dust with thine-O spotless ghost!
O more than fortune, friends, or country lost !