INSCRIPTION ON A TOMB-STONE, IN ANSTY CHURCH-YARD. MARY BEST lies buried here, NEW CHURCH, AMSTERDAM. EFFEN UYT. THESE Flemish words are on a very ancient funeral monument of whitish marble, on which is also engraved a pair of slippers of a very singular kind.EFFEN UYT means EXACTLY. The story is, that a man, tolerably rich, and who dearly loved good eating, took it into his head that he was only to live a certain number of years, and no longer. In this whimsey he counted that, if he spent so much a year, his estate and his life would expire together. It happened that he was not deceived in either of these computations, for he died precisely at the time he had prescribed to himself, and had then so far exhausted his fortune, that, after paying his debts, he had nothing left but a pair of slippers. His relations buried him creditably, and caused the slippers to be carved on his tomb, with the above mentioned laconic words. ON AN IMPORTUNATE TAILOR. HERE lies W. W. Who never more will trouble you, trouble you. IN BIDEFORD CHURCH, DEVON. IF to have been an eminently good and useful man in his place and time, be a just claim to perpetual remembrance, the subject of the following epitaph was peculiarly entitled to this frail kind of immortality. He was born at Bideford, of a very respectable and ancient family. In his youth he experienced some very remarkable deliverances from imminent dangers, which seemed to indicate him born for the good of his fellow creatures. He fell, at one time, from a craggy precipice, of a tremendous height, without hurt; and another time, an arrow struck him forcibly on the forehead, without any other consequence than leaving a mark, which remained to his death. Though he carried on a very extensive foreign trade, and had many ships on the sea at once, it was remarked that he never lost one. The plague breaking out in the town, in the year 1646, the mayor ran away, and Mr. Strange, with amazing boldness and philanthropy, took the critical office on himself, to the great comfort of the inhabitants, in their grievous distress. He visited every infected house, took care to supply the needy with food and physic, and saw the dead buried with decency. When thus, by his prudent management, the town was cleared of this dreadful enemy, Mr. Strange fell the last victim to its rage. The following epitaph is engraved on a fair monument, beneath the bust of this excellent man, who appears to have been the Howard of his day. Sacred to the Memory of MR. JOHN STRANGE, Some time merchant of this town, whose sweetness of disposition, affability in discourse, courteousness in carriage, uprightness in commerce, fidelity in magistracy, largeness of heart, and liberality of hand to the needy, bountifulness in hospitality, humility in the flow, equability in the ebb, of outward things, and sincere love to God, his Gospel, and Saints; having lived beloved, and deservedly honoured, after the pilgrimage of fifty-six years ended, died, and, not without great cause, much lamented, August, Anno Dom. 1646, in his fourth and fatal mayoralty: whose better part returning whence it came, he left unto the world the pretious odour of a good name, and the choyce example of a sweet conversation, together with his earthly tabernacle, put off, and hereby interred, till, being refined, and raised a glorious bodie, the more glorious soul returns to take possession of it, and both be rapt up to enjoy that bliss that knows neither tearme nor tedium. J. N. 1678. SEEK not to learn who underneath doth lie. TO THE MEMORY OF THE HON. EDWARD JAMES ELIOT. WEEP'ST thou, vain Muse, when blood-stain'd chiefs expire? Mourn'st thou when purple tyrants quit the earth? Nor wakes thy fond regret, nor breathes thy lyre One pensive strain to mild departed worth? Yes-Friendship's sigh, and Virtue's artless tear, Eliot, on thy untimely fate attend; With heartfelt sympathy, with grief sincere, Like them, the Muse shall mourn for Virtue's friend. But, ah! what verse can paint the genuine grace, The modest dignity, unform'd by art; The soft complaisance that illum'd thy face, And flow'd spontaneous from thy gentle heart? That face, which still express'd, in manhood's prime, The native candour of ingenuous youth; That faithful heart, which, unsubdu'd by time, Still fondly cherish'd pure, unshaken truth. Hence, tyrant Death! nor boast thy baleful pow'r, To rend the sacred bands of virtuous love; His Harriet lost, his soul, from that sad hour, Dwelt with her spirit in the realms above. Blest pair!-no more, ye friends, ye parents, weep! Let brighter thoughts your sorrowing minds employ. Trust the prophetic Muse, " They do not sleep:" Unsullied Virtue claims immortal joy. 66 HERE lies the man whose horse did gaine TUNBRIDGE. ANNE ELLIOT. Born 16th Nov. 1743.-Died 30th May, 1769. Or matchless form, adorn'd with wit refin'd, A feeling heart, and an enlighten'd mind; Of softest manners, beauty's rarest bloom; Here Elliot lies, and moulders in her tomb. O, blest with genius! early snatch'd away! The Muse, that joyful mark'd thy op'ning ray, Now, sad reverse, attends thy mournful bier, And o'er thy relics sheds the gushing tear! Here Fancy oft the hallow'd mould shall tread, Recal thee living, and lament thee dead; Here Friendship oft shall sigh, till life be o'er, And Death shall bid thy image charm no more! ON MR. JOHN MOLE, Who died at Worcester. BENEATH this cold stone lies a son of the Earth; Without foe, without friend, unnotic'd he died; |