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This weeping marble had not ask'd thy tear,
Or sadly told how many hopes lie here !
The living virtue now had shone approved,
The senate heard him, and his country loved.
Yet softer honours, and less noisy fame,
Attend the shade of gentle Buckingham ;
In whom a race, for courage famed and art,
Ends in the milder merit of the heart;
And-chiefs or sages long to Britain given-
Pays the last tribute of a saint to Heaven.

10

XV.

FOR ONE WHO WOULD NOT BE BURIED

IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

HEROES and kings ! your distance keep :
In peace let one poor poet sleep,
Who never flatter'd folks like you :
Let Horace blush, and Virgil too.

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 shall lay o'er my head,
Lies one who ne'er cared, and still cares not a pin
What they said, or may say, of the mortal within ;
But who, living and dying, serene still and free,
Trusts in God, that as well as he was, he shall be.

XVI.

ON TWO LOVERS STRUCK DEAD BY

LIGHTNING.

WHEN Eastern lovers feed the funeral fire,
On the same pile the faithful pair expire :
Here pitying Heaven that virtue mutual found,
And blasted both, that it might neither wound.
Hearts so sincere, the Almighty saw well pleased,
Sent his own lightning, and the victims seized.

(Lord Harcourt-on whose estate the unfortunate pair lived-fearing the above might be beyond the comprehension of the country people, got Pope to write the following lines, which are inscribed on their monument at Stanton Harcourt, Oxon. )

Near this place lie the bodies of
JOHN HEWET AND SARAH DREW,

An industrious young man,
And virtuous maiden of this parish;
Who, being out at Harvest work

(with several others),
Were in one instant killed by lightning,

the last day of July, 1718.

Think not by rigorous judgment seized,

A pair so faithful could expire ;
Victims so pure Heaven saw well pleased,

And snatch'd them in celestial fire.

Live well, and fear no sudden fate;

When God calls virtue to the grave, Alike 'tis justice soon or late,

Mercy alike to kill or save. Virtue unmoved can hear the call, And face the flash that melts the ball.

THE END

Lamdon · R. Clay, Son, and Taylor,

Printers.

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