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Intended for Mr. Rowe in Westminster-Abbey.
Thy reliques, 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!
Bless'd in thy genius, in thy love too blest
One grateful woman to thy fame supplies
What a whole thankless land to his denies.
On Mrs. Corbet, who died of a Cancer in her Breast.
HERE rests a woman, good without pretence,
Bless'd 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,
Heaven, as its purest gold, by tortures try'd,
The saint sustain'd it, but the woman dy'd.
On the monument of the Hon. Robert Digby, and of
his sister Mary, erected by their father the Lord Digby, in the Church of Sherborne in Dorsetshire, 1727.
Go! fair example of untainted youth,
Of modest wisdom and pacific truth :
Compos'd in suff'rings, and in joy sedate,
Good without noise, without pretension great:
Just of thy word, in ev'ry thought sincere,
Who knew no wish but what the world might hear:
Of softest manner, unaffected mind,
Lover of peace, and friend of human-kind !
Go live! for Heav'n's eternal year is'thine ;
Go, and exalt thy mortal to divine.
And thou, bless'd maid! attendant on his doom,
Pensive hast follow'd to the silent tomb,
Steer'd the same course to the same quiet shore,
Not parted long, and now to part no more!
Go then, where only bliss sincere is known! 15
Go where to love and to enjoy are one e!
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,
KNELLER by Heav'n, and not a master, taught,
Whose art was Nature, and whose pictures thought;
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 thirst of praise.
Living, great Nature fear'd he might outvie
Her works; and, dying, fears herself may die. 8
On General Henry Withers in Westminster-Abbey,
HERE, Withers ! rest; thou bravest, gentlest mind, Thy country's friend, but more of human-kind. Oh born to arms! O worth in youth approv'd! O soft humanity, in age belov’d; For thee the hardy vet’ran drops a tear, And the gay courtier feels the sigh sincere. 6
Withers! adieu ; yet not with thee remove Thy martial spirit or thy social love! Amidst corruption, luxury and rage, Still leave some ancient virtues to our age; Nor let us say (those English glories gone) The last true Briton lies beneath this stone. 12