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On Dr. FRANCIS ATTERBURY, Bishop of Rochester.

Who died in Exile at Paris, 1732.

[His only Daughter having expired in his arms, immediately after the arrived in France to fee him.]



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 duft like me.

H E.

Dear Shade! I will: Then mix this duft with thine-O fpotless Ghoft! O more than Fortune, Friends, or Country loft! Is there on Earth, one care, one wish befide? Yes-SAVE MY COUNTRY, HEAV'N,

-He said, and dy'd.

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Save my Country, Heav'n,] Alluding to the Bishop's frequent ufe and application of the expiring words of the famous Father PAUL, in his prayer for the state, ESTO PERPETUA. With how good a grace the Bishop applied it at his trial, and is here made to refer to it in his last moments, they will understand who know what conformity there was in the lives of the Prelate and the Monk. The character of our countryman is well known. And that of the Father may be told in very few words. He was profoundly fkilled in all divine and human learning: He employed his whole life in the fervice of the State, against the unjust encroachments of the Church. He was modeft, humble, and forgiving; candid, patient, and jutt; free from all prejudices of party, and all the projects of ambition; in a word, the happiest compound of Science, Wifdom, and Virtue.

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Who died in the Nineteenth Year of his



Age, 1735.


IF modeft Youth, with cool Reflection crown'd,
And ev'ry op'ning Virtue blooming round,"
Could fave a Parent's jufteft Pride from fate,
Or add one Patriot to a finking ftate;
This weeping Marble had not afk'd thy Tear,
Or fadly told, how many hopes lie here!
The living Virtue now had shone approv'd,
The Senate heard him, and his Country lov'd.
Yet fofter Honours, and lefs noify Fame
Attend the shade of gentle BUCKINGHAM:
In whom a Race, for Courage fam'd and Art,
Ends in the milder Merit of the Heart;
And Chiefs or Sages long to Britain giv'n,
Pays the last Tribute of a Saint to Heav'n.


For One who would not be buried in

HEROES and KINGS! your distance keep ;
In peace let one poor Poet fleep,
Who never flatter'd Folks like you :
Let Horace blush, and Virgil too.

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Another, on the Same.

UNDER this Marble, or under this Sill,

Or under this Turf, or e'en what they will; Whatever an Heir, or a Friend in his stead, Or any good creature fhall lay o'er my head, Lies one who ne'er car'd, and ftill cares not a pin What they said, or may fay of the Mortal within: But who, living and dying, ferene still and free, Trufts in Gop, that as well as he was, he shall be,

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Life, Works, and Discoveries



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