WHY start? the case is yours, or will be soon;
Some years perhaps, perhaps another moon:
Life, in its utmost span, is still a breath,
And those who longest dream must wake in death.
Like you, I once thought ev'ry bliss secure,
And gold of ev'ry ill the certain cure:
Till, steep'd in sorrows, and besieg'd with pain,
Too late I found all earthly riches vain;
Disease, with scorn, threw back the sordid fee,
And Death still answer'd, "What is gold to me?"
Fame, titles, honour, glory, next I sought,
And fools obsequious nurs'd the childish thought.
Circled with brib'd applause, and purchas'd praise,
I built on endless pleasure, endless days;
Till death awak'd me from a dream of pride,
And laid a prouder beggar by my side.
Pleasure I courted, and obey'd my taste;
The banquet smil'd, and smil'd the gay repast:
A loathsome carcase was my constant care,
And worlds were ransack'd but for me to share.
Go on, poor wretch! to luxury be firm;
But, know, I feasted, but-to feast a worm.
Already, sure, less terrible I seem ;
And you, like me, will own that life's a dream.
Farewel; remember, nor my words despise,
The only happy are the early wise.
ALL you that told lies of my mother and me,
Come to my grave and see.
ON RICHARD THE THIRD.
Buried at Leicester, by Order and at the Expence of King
Henry the Seventh.
I, WHO am laid beneath this marble stone,
RICHARD THE THIRD, possess'd the British throne.
My country's guardian in my nephew's claim,
By trust betray'd I to the kingdom came.
Two years and sixty days, save two, I reign'd,
And bravely strove in fight; but unsustain'd
My ENGLISH left me in the luckless field,
Where I to Henry's arms was forc'd to yield.
Yet at his cost my corse this tomb obtains,
Who piously interr'd me, and ordains
That regal honours wait a king's remains.
Th' year thirteen hundred was and eighty-four,
The twenty-first of August, when its power,
And all its rights, I did to the red rose restore,
Reader, whoe'er thou art, thy prayers bestow,
T'atone my crimes, and ease my pains below.
THIS humble grave, tho' no proud structures grace,
Yet truth and goodness sanctify the place :
Yet blameless virtue that adorn'd thy bloom,
Lamented maid! now weeps upon thy tomb,
O'scap'd from life, O safe on that calm shore,
Where sin, and pain, and passion are no more!
What never wealth could buy, nor power decree,
Regard and pity, wait sincere on thee;
Lo! soft remembrance drops a pious tear;
And holy friendship stands a mourner here.
ON SIMON TAYLER, ESQ.
Receiver General for Norfolk.
PENSIVE peruse, and keep, where'er thou art,
This wholesome lesson treasur'd in thy heart:
Tho' to the wealth the heart humane be join'd,
And all the bless'd benevolence of mind;
Tho' widows hail thee, as thou mov'st along,
And orphans join in the celestial song ;
In blooming youth, adorn'd with every grace,
The noblest offspring of a human race ;
The virtues from thy parents handed down,
Kept and increas'd with thousands of thy own:
To ask thy stay, tho' ev'ry streaming eye,
And every
hand were lifted to the sky;
the same track with Tayler thou must tread, And join the number of the worthy dead.
ON LORD BALMERINO.
HERE lies a Baron bold; take care;
There may be treason in a tear.
And yet my Arthur may find room,
Where greater folks don't always come.
ON RANDOLPH PETER,
Of Oriel, the Eater.
WHOE'ER you are, tread softly, I entreat you,
For if he chance to wake, be sure he'll eat you.
HENCEFORTH be every tender tear supprest,
Or let us weep for joy that he is blest;
From grief to bliss, from earth to heav'n remov'd,
His mem'ry honour'd, as his life belov'd.
That heart, o'er which no evil e'er had pow'r!
That disposition, sickness could not sour!
That sense, so oft to riper years denied!
That patience, heroes might have own'd with pride!
His painful race undauntedly he ran,
And on th' eleventh winter dy'd a man.
HERE lies a round woman, who thought mighty odd
Ev'ry word that she heard in this church about God.
To convince her of God the good Dean did endeavour,
But still in her heart she held nature more clever,
Tho' he talk'd much of virtue, her head always run
Upon something or other she found better fun.
For the dame, by her skill in affairs astronomical,
Imagin'd to live in the clouds was but comical.
In this world she despis'd ev'ry soul she met here,
And now she's in t'other she thinks it but queer.
ON SIR JOHN VANBRUGH,
The Architect.
LIE light upon him earth! tho' he
Laid many a heavy load on thee.
BLANDFORD, DORSET,
By Christopher Pitt
ON HIS FATHER, MOTHER, AND BROTHER.
YE sacred spirits, while your friends distress'd,
Weep o'er your ashes, and lament the bless'd:
O let the pensive Muse inscribe this stone,
And with the gen'ral sorrow mix her own:
The pensive Muse! who from this mournful hour
Shall raise her voice, and wake the string no more!
Of love, of duty, this last pledge receive,
'Tis all a brother, all a son can give.
ON RICHARD SAVAGE,
THE UNFORTUNATE POET.
FROM pomp in mind, and meanness in estate,
From rebel passions, still at war with fate,
Now manumiz'd, th' unequal strife is o'er,
Fix'd is his fate, his hopes and fears no more.
Peace to his soul I wish; I hope it too;
Since in his crimes his punishments we view :
Left to remorse by rage, to scorn by pride,
To friendship wrong'd, a martyr, when he dy'd.*
Oh blam'd yet mourn'd, despis'd yet honour'd shade,
No more thy fame shall spread a chequer'd shade.
Thy faults shall perish, all thy worth shall shine,
For frailty's mortal,-excellence divine :
O'er all the rest, while dark oblivion flows,
Late times shall know thy birth, thy lays, thy woes.
Shall read, admire, compassionate, and praise,
And while they give, with tears bedew the bays.
* See p. 178 of his life, where it alludes to Mr. Pope's using the word scoundrel, which the unhappy SAVAGE did not long survive.
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