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III. On the Hon. SIMON HARCOURT, Only Son of the Lord Chancellor HARCOURT,
at the Church of Stanton-Harcourt in Oxford
fhire, 1720. T
O this fad fhrine, whoe'er thou art! draw near,
Here lies the Friend most lov'd, the Son most dear :
Who ne'er knew Joy, but Friendship might divide,
his Father Grief but when he dy'd.
How vain is Reason, Eloquence how weak!
If Pope must tell what HARCOURT cannot speak.
Oh let thy once-lov'd Friend inscribe thy Stone,
And, with a Father's forrows, mix his own!
On JAMES CRAGGS, Efq;
REGI MAGNÆ BRITANNIÆ A SECRETIS
ET CONSILIIS SANCTIORIBUS,
PRINCIPIS PARITER AC POPULI AMOR ET DELICIÆ;
VIXIT TITULIS ET INVIDIA MAJOR
ANNOS, HEU PAUCOS, XXXV.
OB. FEB. XVI. MDCCXX.
Statesman, yet Friend to Truth! of Soul sincere,
In Action faithful, and in Honour clear!
Who broke no Promise, sery'd no private End,
Who gain'd no Title, and who loft no Friend,
Ennobled by Himself, by All approv'd,
Prais’d, wept, and honour'd, by the Muse he lov’d.
Intended for Mr. ROWE,
HY reliques, Rowe, to this fair Urn we trust,
And facred, 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!
One grateful woman to thy fame supplies
What a whole thankless land to his denies.
It is as follows on the Monument in the Abbey erected to Rowe and his Daughter.
Thy Reliques, Rowe! to this sad shrine we trust,
And near thy Shakespeare 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 infcribes this monumental stone,
That holds their alhes and expects her own.
On Mrs. CORBET,
Who died of a Cancer in her Breast.
ERE rests a Woman, good without pretence,
Blest with plain Reason, and with sober Sense :
No Conquests the, but o'er herself, desir'd,
No Arts essay'd, but not to be admir'd.
Paffion and Pride were to her Soul unknown,
Convinc'd that Virtue only is our own.
So unaffected, fo composd a mind;
So firm, yet soft; so strong, yet to refind;
Heaven, as its purest gold, by Tortures try'd;
The Saint sustain'd it, but the Woman dy'd,
On the Monument of the Honourable ROBERT
DIGBY, and of his Sifter MARY, erected by their Father the Lord Digby, in the Church
of Sherborne in Dorsetshire, 1727. G
O! fair Example of untainted youth,
Of modest wisdom, and pacific truth : Compos'd in sufferings, and in joy sedate, Good without noise, without pretenfion great. Just of thy word, in every thought fincere, Who knew no with but what the world might hear: Of softest manners, unaffected mind, Lover of peace, and friend of human kind:
Go, live! for Heaven's eternal year is thine,
Go, and exalt thy Moral to Divine.
And thou, blest Maid! attendant on his doom,
Pensive haft follow'd to the silent tomb,
Steer'd the same course to the same quiet fhore,
Not parted long, and now to part no more !
Go then, where only bliss sincere is known !
Go, where to love and to enjoy are one !
Yet take these Tears, Mortality's relief,
And till we share your joys, forgive our grief :
These little rites, a Stone, a Verse receive ;
'Tis all a Father, all a Friend can give !
On Sir GODFREY KNELLER,
In Westminster-Abbey, 1723.
KELLER, by Heaven and not a Mafter taught,
Whose Art was Nature, and whose Pictures
Now for two ages having snatch'd from Fate
Whate'er was beauteous, or whate'er was great,
Lies crown’d with Princes honours, Poets lays,
Due to his Merit, and brave Thirit of praise.
Living, great Nature fear'd he might outvie
Her works; and, dying, fears herself may die.
On General HENRY WITHERS,
In Westminster Abbey, 1729.
HERE, WITHERS, reft : thou braveft, gentleft mind,
Thy Country's friend, but more of human-kind.
Oh born to Arms! 0 Worth in Youth approv'd!
O soft Humanity, in Age belov'd!
For thee the hardy Veteran drops a tear,
And the gay Courtier feels the sigh sincere.
Withers, adieu ! yet not with thee remove
Thy Martial spirit, or thy Social love!
Amidt Corruption, Luxury, and Rage,
Still leave fome ancient Virtues to our age :
Nor let us say (those English glories gone)
The last true Briton lies beneath this stone.
X. On Mr. ELIJAH FENTON,
At Earthamfted in Berks, 1730.
HIS modest Stone, what few vain Marbles can,
May truly say, Here lies an honest Man: A Poet, bleft beyond the Poet's fate, Whom Heaven kept sacred from the Proud and Great: Foe to loud Praise, and Friend to learned Ease, Content with Science in the Vale of Peace,