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IV.

ON JAMES CRAGGS, ESQ.

In Westminster-Abbey.

JACOBUS CRAGGS

REGI MAGNE BRITANNIE A SECRETIS

ET CONSILIIS SANCTIORIBUS,

PRINCIPIS PARITER AC POPULI AMOR ET DELICIÆ:

VIXIT TITULIS ET INVIDIA MAJOR

ANNOS, HEU PAUCOS, XXXV.

OB. FEB. XIV. MDCCXX.

Statesman, yet Friend to Truth! of Soul sincere,
In Action faithful, and in Honour clear!
Who broke no Promise, serv'd no private End,
Who gain'd no Title, and who lost no Friend,
Ennobled by Himself, by All approv❜d,

Prais'd, wept, and honour'd, by the Muse he lov'd.

THE following severe Epitaph on Mr. Craggs, a Parody on the Duke of Buckingham's, in Westminster Abbey, was written by Mr. Smith, Author of Phædra Hippolytus:

M. S. JA. CRAGGS, ARM.

PRO MEIS SEMPER.

PRO REPUBLICA NUNQUAM.

NIL DUBIUS; IMPROBUS VIXI.

OPIO, OPIBUSQ. INTOXICATUS MORIOR.

DUCEM MARBURIUM CREATOREM

MEUM ADVENEROR.

IN MAMMONE SOLO CONFIDO DEO MIHI OMNIPOTENTI.

PROLEM MEAM DILECTISSIMAM SEQUOR.

SPE CERTA

PIUM SUNDERLANDIUM SECUTURUM EXPECTANS,

DII INFERI ACCIPITE VESTROS.

"An epitaph," says Dr. Johnson, "given partly in prose and partly in verse, partly' in English and partly in Latin, like that on Craggs, resembles the conversation of a foreigner, who tells part of his meaning by words, and conveys part by signs."

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V.

INTENDED FOR MR. ROWE,

IN WESTMINSTER-ABBEY.

THY Relics, Rowe, to this fair Urn we trust,
And sacred, place by DRYDEN's awful dust:
Beneath a rude and nameless stone he lies,
To which thy Tomb shall guide inquiring eyes.
Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest!
Blest in thy Genius, in thy Love too blest!

VARIATIONS.

He altered it much for the better, as it now stands on the Monument in the Abbey, erected to Rowe and his Daughter:

Thy Relics, RowE! to this sad shrine we trust,
And near thy SHAKESPEAR place thy honour'd bust.
Oh, next him, skill'd to draw the tender tear,
For never heart felt passion more sincere;
To nobler sentiment to fire the brave,
For never BRITON more disdain'd a slave.
Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest;
Blest in thy genius, in thy love too blest!
And blest, that timely from our scene remov❜d,
Thy soul enjoys the liberty it lov'd.

To these, so mourn'd in death, so lov'd in life!
The childless parent, and the widow'd wife,
With tears inscribes this monumental stone,
That holds their ashes and expects her own.

NOTES.

W.

Ver. 3. Beneath a rude] The tomb of Mr. Dryden was erected upon this hint by the Duke of Buckingham; to which was originally intended this Epitaph:

One grateful Woman to thy fame supplies
What a whole thankless land to his denies.

NOTES.

"This Sheffield rais'd. The sacred dust below

Was Dryden once: The rest who does not know?"

which the Author since changed into the plain inscription now upon it, being only the name of that great poet :

J. DRYDEN.

Natus Aug. 9, 1631. Mortuus Maii 1, 1700.

JOANNES SHEFFIELD DUX BUCKINGHAMIENSIS POSUIT.

P.

Ir was always understood that Pope had a sincere regard for Rowe; but the following extraordinary anecdote is related from Mr. Spence's Collections:

66

Rowe, in Mr. Pope's opinion, maintained a decent character, but had no heart. Mr. Addison was justly offended with some behaviour which arose from that want, and estranged himself from him, which Rowe felt very severely. Mr. Pope, their common friend, knowing this, took an opportunity, at some juncture of Mr. Addison's advancement, to tell him how poor Rowe was grieved at his displeasure, and what satisfaction he expressed at Mr. Addison's good fortune; which he expressed so naturally, that he (Mr. Pope) could not but think him sincere. Mr. Addison replied, 'I do not suspect that he feigned; but the levity of his heart is such, that he is struck with any new adventure; and it would affect him just in the same manner, if he heard I was going to be hanged.' Mr. Pope said, he could not deny but Mr. Addison understood Rowe well."

VI.

ON MRS. CORBET,

WHO DIED OF A CANCER IN HER BREAST.

HERE rests a Woman, good without pretence,
Blest with plain Reason, and with sober sense;
No Conquest she, but o'er herself, desir'd,
No Arts essay'd, but not to be admir'd.
Passion and Pride were to her soul unknown,
Convinc'd that Virtue only is our own.
So unaffected, so compos'd a mind ;

So firm, yet soft; so strong, yet so refin’d;
Heav'n, as its purest gold, by Tortures tried!
The Saint sustain'd it, but the Woman died.

NOTES.

Ver. 10. the Woman died.] A very pleasing picture of silent domestic virtue!

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