ON THE

REV. SIR JAMES STONHOUSE, BART., M. D

In the Chapel at the Hot-wells, Bristol.

HERE rests awhile, in happier climes to shine,
The Orator, Physician, and Divine.

'Twas his, like LUKE, the double task to fill,
To heal the natural and the moral ill.

You, whose awakened hearts his labors blest,
Where every truth by every grace was drest,
O! let your lives evince that still you feel
Th' effective influence of his fervent zeal.
One spirit rescued from eternal wo
Were nobler fame than marble can bestow;
That lasting monument will mock decay,
And stand triumphant, at the final day.

He died December the 8th, 1795, in the 80th year of his age.

BE FAITHFUL.

Sir James Stonhouse was, for more than twenty years, physician to the infirmary at Northampton, of which excellent charity he was, indeed, the founder. In 1763 he took orders, and obtained first the living of Little Cheverel, in Wiltshire, to which, afterwards, was added that of Great Cheverel; and this was all the preferment he ever obtained. His first wife, Anne, the eldest daughter of John Neale, Esq., of Allesley, rear Coventry, died at Northampton, and lies in the church of All Saints, in that town. His second wife was Sarah, the only child of Thomas Ekins, Esq., whose estate she inherited. Dr. Doddridge was her guardian; but he died before her marriage. Dr. Stonhouse was an admirable preacher, and truly evangelical, without the least approximation to enthusiasm.

The following encomium, by his friend, Hannah More, written on the fly leaf of Saurin's Sermons, which she had borrowed of the doctor in 1775, is no exaggeration.

EPITRE AU DR. STONHOUSE SUR LES SERMONS DE M. SAURIN.

Ces divines ardeurs, cette sainte éloquence,
Ces sublimes pensées, ces conceptions immenses,
Ces essors évangeliques, cette humilité profonde,
Cette connoissance unie à ce mépris du monde,
Cet horreur du vice, cet amour de la virtu,
Cette extréme soumission à la volenté de Dieu,
Cette heureuse indifference pour un monde incertain,
Cette compassion pour les maux du genre humain,
Cet amour, et cette crainte de l'eternel Créateur,
Cette parfaite espérance dans le sang du Redempteur;

Enfin, ces grandes idées-ce language divin—
Qui charme, qui eleve, qui transporte en Saurin,
J'admire en le lisant, ces beautés eclatantes,

En t'ecoutant, Docteur, les mémes beautés m'enchantent,
Semblable au prophête qui, la Sainte Ecriture dit,
Laisse a son successeur son manteau et son esprit.

*

These Lines may be thus literally translated.
THAT warmth divine, that holy eloquence,
Those thoughts sublime, conceptions so immense,
That holy zeal, that deep humility,

Extent of knowledge, perfect charity,

That dread of vice, of virtue such a love,
That true submission to the Will above,
That calm indifference to this changing scene,
That pity for the woes of mortal men,
That love and fear of the eternal Good,
That perfect hope in the Redeemer's blood;
Those grand ideas, language so divine,
Which charm, exalt, transport us in SAURIN;
In reading him, these beauties still appear,
In hearing thee, these beauties charm mine ear;
Like to that prophet, who, as Scriptures say,

His cloak and spirit left, then winged to heaven his way.

* 2 Kings ii. 31.

ON SARAH STONHOUSE,

Second wife of Sir James Stonhouse, Bart.

COME, Resignation! wipe the human tear
Domestic anguish drops o'er virtue's bier;
Bid selfish sorrow hush the fond complaint,
Nor from the GOD she loved detain the saint.

Truth, meekness, patience, honored shade, were thine; And holy hope, and charity divine:

Though these thy forfeit being could not save,

Thy faith subdued the terrors of the grave.

O! if thy living excellence could teach,
Death has a loftier emphasis of speech:
Let death thy strongest lesson then impart,
And write, PREPARE TO DIE, on every heart.

She died December 10, 1788, aged 55 years.

BE SERIOUS.

ON MR. SHAPLAND,

An eminent Apothecary in Bristol.

WOULD'ST thou inquire of him who sleeps beneath,
This tomb shall tell thee, 'tis no common dust,
That, crushed at length by oft-defeated death,
Fills the cold urn committed to its trust.

Stranger! this building, fallen to decay,
Was once the dwelling of an honest mind-
A spirit cheerful as the light of day-

The soul of friendship-milk of human kind.
His art forbade th' expiring wretch to die,

Empowered the nerveless tongue once more to speak, Restored its lustre to the sunken eye,

And spread fresh roses on the livid cheek.

Each various duty bound on social man,
'Twas his with glowing duty to perform,
As crystal pure, his stream of conduct ran,
Unstained by folly, undisturbed by storm.

With me, then, stranger! mourn departed worth,
Steeled is the heart that can forbear to sigh;
Let deep regret call all thy sorrows forth—

Live as he lived-and fear not then to die.*

* Dr. Stonhouse had the highest esteem for Mr. Shapland, who attended his family, as well as that of Mrs. More, even after he had left off general practice. Dr. Stonhouse, in 1789, presented to Mr. Shapland a piece of plate "as a testimony of his gratitude for the restoration of health, through the blessing of God."

The Editor trusts to be excused for subjoining to the sepulchral Inscriptions the following" Lines, which were suggested by seeing a rustic structure in Mrs. Hannah More's Garden, at Barley-wood, and hearing it called a Classica Temple."

WHAT have we here ?-a temple! if 'tis such,
Art has done little-if a shed, too much.

Four wooden pegs a wooden roof sustain,
Just wide enough to shield you from the rain,
If in the middle bolt upright you stand,
Exposed to all the winds on either hand:
This pride of Barley-wood, how can I name?
And how inscribe it on the roll of fame ?
It is not Tuscan, Saxon, nor yet Doric,
Commemorative, votive, or historic :-
'Tis but an emblem of its Owner's mind,
Erect and firm, by no false taste refined';
Of steady fabric, pointing to the skies;
A friendly beacon to inquiring eyes;
Open to all, by all reputed good,
And often praised when little understood.

HYMNS.

THE

TRUE HEROES:

OR,

THE NOBLE ARMY OF MARTYRS

You who love a tale of glory,
Listen to the song I sing;
Heroes of the Christian story
Are the heroes I shall bring.

Warriors of the world, avaunt!
Other heroes me engage;
'Tis not such as you I want;

Saints and martyrs grace my page.

Warriors who the world o'ercame
Were in brothers' blood embrued;
While the saints of purer fame-
Greater far-themselves subdued.

Fearful Christian! hear with wonder
Of the saints of whom I tell ;
Some were burnt, some sawn asunder,
Some by fire or torture fell;

Some to savage beasts were hurled,
One escaped the lion's den:

Was a persecuting world

Worthy of these wondrous men?

VOL. VI.

Some, in fiery furnace thrown,
Yet escaped, unsinged their hair;
There Almighty power was shown;
For the Son of God was there.

Let us crown with deathless fame
Those who scorned and hated fell;
Martyrs met contempt and shame,
Fearing nought but sin and hell.

How the shower of stones descended,
Holy Stephen, on thy head!
While his tongue the truth defended,
How the glorious martyr bled!

See his fierce reviler Saul,

How he rails with impious breath! Then observe converted Paul,

Oft in perils, oft in death.

'Twas that God, whose sovereign power
Did the lion's fury 'suage,
Could alone, in one short hour,
Still the persecutor's rage.

E'en a woman-women, hear;
Read in Maccabees the story-
Conquered nature, love, and fear,
To obtain a crown of glory.

Seven stout sons she saw expire,
(How the mother's soul was pained !)
Some by sword, and some by fire,
(How the martyr was sustained!)

E'en in death's acutest anguish,
Each the tyrant still defied;
Each she saw in torture languish :
Last of all the mother died.

Martyrs who were thus arrested,

In their short but bright career,
By their blood the truth attested,
Proved their faith and love sincere.