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But when the powers of wit combine,

With pleasing force to warm; Where wisdom, genius, honour, shine,

Oh! how resist the charm!

While reason, and reflection's aid,

Can only fan the fire;
And strengthen all impressions made,

Not quell the fond desire.

With books I try'd to sooth my pain,

And all my suff’rings ease: Alas! no authors entertain;

No wit but his can please.

If of philosophy they treat,

My passion they renew;
The sage, of all the most complete,

Is present to my view.

His image to efface I sought,

And tear it from my breast;
But oh! how vain! whilst ev'ry thought

Recalls the fatal guest.

The conflict's o'er, be calm my heart,

And cease thy fate to mourn : By merit gain’d, endure the smart, Tho' hopeless of return.

Original Poems from the French.

ODE TO SLEEP.

Sleep, thy balmy aid apply!

Calm to rest my wakeful woes! Sorrow's cheek, O gently dry!

Sorrow's eye in slumber close!

Fancy, then, shall hold her reign;

Hope shall sooth the pensive mind;. Stella, then, shall smile again;

Stella shall again be kind.

Lost to all we most adore,

What has life that's worth our care ? Sleep, to my fond arms restore

Stella faithful, kind, and fair!

But, tho' once so fair and kind,

Should those dreams of love be past! Ah then! what solace may I find ? · Still let me sleep-and sleep my last.

Cartwright.

EPITAPH

ON
WILLIAM SHENSTONE, ESQ.

W hoe'er thou-art, with rev’rence tread
The sacred mansions of the dead
Not that the monumental bust,
Or sumptuous tomb here guards the dust
Of rich or great; (let wealth, rank, birth,
Sleep undistinguis'd in the earth!)
This simple urn records a name,
That shines with more exalted fame.

Reader! if genius, taste refin'd,
A native elegance of mind;
If virtue, science, manly sense ;
If wit, that never gave offence,
The clearest head, the tenderest heart,
In thy esteem e’er claim'd a part,
Ah! smite thy breast, and drop a tear,
For, know, thy Shenstone's dust lies here.

Garrick.

EPITAPH

ON

- MR. JOSEPH MITCHELL,

A famous Sportsman. On the grave-stone is delineated a hare run down; from a label at her

mouth proceeds this motto,-
“I HAVE FINISH'D MY COURSE.”
READER,

If ever sport to thee was dear,
Drop on Joe Mitchell's grave a tear;
Who when alive with nimble eye,
Did myriads of hares descry.
He was professor of the art,
Those animals to find and start.
All arts and sciences beside,
This hare-brain'd hero did deride:
An utter foe to wedlock’s noose,
In which close state appear'd no meuse.
Joe scorn'd this earth, he was above it,
But only for form's sake did love it;
But Joe at length was spy’d by death,
And cours'd and run quite out of breath.
No shifting, winding turn, could save
Joe from the all-devouring grave.
As greyhound with superior force
Seizes poor puss and ends her course;
So stopt the fates this sportsman true,
Who now for ever bids adieu
To quick soho! and loud halloo!

EPITAPH

ON
LORD AUBREY BEAUCLERK.

W hile Britain boasts her empire o'er the deep,
This marble shall compel the brave to weep;
As men, as Britons, and as soldiers, mourn
O'er dauntless, loyal, virtuous Beauclerk's urn;
Sweet were his manners, as his soul was great;
And ripe his worth, tho’iminature his fate :
Each tender grace that love and joy inspires,
Living, he mingled with his martial fires;
Dying, he bade Britannia’s thunder roar,
And Spain still felt him, when he breath'd no more.

Young.

EPITAPH.

A GENEROUS foe, a faithful friend-
A victor bold here met his end.
He conquer'd both in war and peace;
By death subdu’d, his glories cease.
Ask’st thou, who finish'd here his course
With so much honour ?-'Twas a horse.

Anonymous.

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