Where British fighs from dying WYNDHAM stole,
And the bright flame was fhot thro' MARCHMONT '3
Soul.

Let fuch, fuch only, tread this facred Floor,
Who dare to love their Country, and be poor.

To Mrs. M. B. on her BIRTH-DAY.

OH be thou bleft with all that Heav'n can send,
Long Health, long Youth, long Pleasure, and a
Friend:

Not with those Toys the female world admire,
Riches that vex, and Vanities that tire..
With added years, if Life bring nothing new,
But like a Sieve let every bleffing thro',
Some joy ftill loft, as each vain year runs o'er,
And all we gain, fome fad Reflection more;
Is that a Birth-Day? 'tis alas! too clear,
'Tis but the Fun'ral of the former year.

Let Joy or Eafe, let Affluence or Content,
And the gay Confcience of a life well spent,
Calm ev'ry thought, infpirit ev'ry, grace,
Glow in thy heart, and fmile upon thy face.
Let day improve on day, and year on year,
Without a Pain, a Trouble, or a Fear;
Till Death unfelt that tender frame destroy,
In fome foft dream, or Ecftacy of Joy,
Peaceful fleep out the Sabbath of the Tomb,
And wake to Raptures in a Life to come.

VARIATIONS.

VER. 15. Originally thus in the MS.

And oh fince Death must that fair frame deftroy,
Die, by fome fudden Ecftafy of Joy;
In fome foft dream may thy mild foul remove,
And be thy latest gasp a Sigh of Love.

5

10

15

20

To Mr. THOMAS SOUTHERN,
On his Birth-day, 1742.

RESIGN'D to live, prepar'd to die,
With not one fin, but Poetry,
This day Tom's fair Account has run
(Without a blot) to eighty-one.
Kind Boyle, before his poet, lays
A table, with a cloth of bays;
And Ireland, mother of fweet fingers,
Prefents her harp ftill to his fingers.
The feast, his tow'ring genius marks
In yonder wild-goofe and the larks!
The mushrooms fhew his wit was fudden !
And for his judgment, lo a pudden!
Roaft beef, tho' old, proclaims him stout,
And grace, altho' a bard, devout.
May Toм, whom Heav'n fent down to raise
The price of prologues and of plays,
Be ev'ry birth-day more a winner,
Digest his thirty-thousandth dinner;
Walk to his grave without reproach,
And scorn a rafcal and a coach.

VER. 6. A table,] He was invited to dine on his birth-day with this Nobleman, who had prepared for him the entertainment of which the bill of fare is here fet down.

VER. 8. Prefents ber harp] The harp is generally wore on the Irish Linen; fuch as Table-cloths, etc.

VER. 16. The price of prologues and of plays,] This alludes to a ftory Mr. Southern told of Dryden, about the fame time, to Mr. P. and Mr. W. When Southern firft wrote for the ftage, Dryden was fo famous for his Prologues, that the players would act nothing without that decoration. His ufual price till then had been four guineas: But when Southern came to him for the Prologue he had bespoke, Dryden told him he must have fix guineas for it; "which

(faid he) young man, is out of no difrefpect to yon; but the "players have had my goods too cheap."- We now look upon thefe Prologues with the fame admiration that the Virtuofi do on the Apothecaries pots painted by Raphael.

VOL. IV.

D

EPITAPH S.

His faltem accumulem donis, et fungar inani
Munere !

VIRG.

I.

On CHARLES Earl of DORSET,

In the Church of Withyam in Suffex.

Do

ORSET, the Grace of Courts, the Mufes' Pride, Patron of Arts, and Judge of Nature, dy'd. The fcourge of Pride, tho' fanctified or great, Of Fops in Learning, and of Knaves in State: Yet foft his Nature, tho' fevere his Lay, His Anger moral, and his Wisdom gay. Bleft Sat'rift! who touch'd the Mean fo true, As fhow'd, Vice had his hate and pity too. Bleft Courtier! who could King and Country pleafe, Yet facred keep his Friendships, and his Eafe.

Epitaphs.] Thefe little compofitions far exceed any thing we have of the fame kind from other hands: yet, if we except the Epitaph on the young Duke of Buckingham, and perhaps one or two more, they are not of equal force with the rest of our Author`s writings. The nature of the Compofition itself is delicate; and generally it was a task impofed on him; though he rarely complied with requests of this nature, as we may fee by the fmall number of thefe poems, but where the fubject was worthy of his pen.

For random praise the Work would ne'er be done :

Each Motber afks it for her booby Son:
Each Widow afks it for the best of Men;
For kim he weeps, for kim fhe weds again.

Bleft Peer! his great Forefathers ev'ry grace
Reflecting, and reflected in his Race;
Where other BUCKHURSTS, other DORSETS shine,
And Patrons ftill, or Poets, deck the Line.

Yet when thefe elegiac movements came freely from the heart, he mourns in fuch strains as fhew he was equally a matter of this kind of Compofition with every other he undertook, as the following lines in the Epistle to Jervas may witness; which would have made the finest Epitaph in the world:

Call round her Tomb each object of defire,
Fach purer frame inform'd with purer fire:
Bid her be all that chears or foftens life,
The tender fifter, daughter, friend, and wife;
Bid her be all that makes mankind adore;
Then view this marble, and be vain no more!

II.

On Sir WILLIAM TRUMBAL, One of the principal Secretaries of State to King WILLIAM III. who, having refigned his place, died in his Retirement at Easthamsted in Berkshire, 1716.

A

PLEASING Form; a firm, yet cautious Mind;
Sincere, tho' prudent; conftant, yet refign'd:
Honour unchang'd, a Principle profest,
Fix'd to one fide, but mod'rate to the, reft:
An honest Courtier, yet a Patriot too ;
Juft 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 Superftition 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.

III.

On the Hon. SIMON HARCOURT, Only Son of the Lord Chancellor HARCOURT, at the Church of Stanton-Harcourt in Oxfordshire, 1720.

TO this fad Shrine, whoe'er thou art! draw near,

Here lies the Friend most lov'd, the Son most dear: Who ne'er knew Joy, but Friendship might divide, Or gave his Father Grief but when he dy'd. How vain is Reason, Eloquence how weak! If Pope must tell what HARCOURT cannot speak, Oh let thy once-lov'd Friend inscribe thy Stone, And, with a Father's forrows, mix his own!

IV.

On JAMES CRAGGS, Efq. In Westminster-Abbey.

JACOBUS CRAGGS

REGI MAGNE BRITANNIA A SECRETIS
ET CONSILIIS SANCTIORIBUS,

FRINCIPIS PARITER AC POPULI AMOR ET DELICIÆ;
VIXIT TITULIS ET INVIDIA MAJOR

ANNOS, HEU PAUCOS, XXXV.
OB. FEB. XVI. MDCCXX.

Statefman, yet Friend to Truth! of Soul fincere,
In Action faithful, and in Honour clear!
Who broke no Promise, ferv'd no private End,.
Who gain'd no Title, and who loft no Friend,
Ennobled by Himfelf, by All approv'd,
Prais'd, wept, and honour'd, by the Mufe he lov'd.