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x.

On Mr. Elijah Fenton, at Easthamsted, in Berks,

1730.

This modest stone, what few vain marbles can, May truly say,

“ Here lies an honest man ;" A poet bless'd beyond the poet's fate, Whom Heav'n kept sacred from the proud and great; Foe to loud praise, and friend to learned ease, Content with science in the vale of peace. Calmly he look'd on either life, and here Saw nothing to regret, or there to fear; From Nature's temp’rate feast rose satisfy'd, 9 Thank'd Heav'n that he had liv’d, and that he dy'd.

XI.

On Mr. Gay in Westminster-Abbey, 1732.

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OF manners gentle, of affections mild ;
In wit a man, simplicity a child :
With native humour temp’ring virtuous rage,
Form'd to delight at once and lash the age :
Above temptation in a low estate,
And uncorrupted ev'n among the great:
A safe companion, and an easy friend,
Unblam'd thro’ life, lamented in thy end.
These are thy honours ! not that here thy bust
Is mix'd with heroes, or with kings thy dust;
But that the worthy and the good shall say,
Striking their pensive bosoms-Here lies Gay.

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XII.

Intended for Sir Isaac Newton, in Westminster

Abbey.

ISAACUS NEWTONUS:

Quem Immortalem
Testantur Tempus, Natura, Cælum :

Mortalem
Hoc Marmor Fatetur.

Nature and Nature's laws lay hid in night;
God said, let Newton be! and all was light,

XIII.

On Dr. Francis Atterbury, Bishop of Rochester,

who died in exile at Paris, 1732. [His only daughter having expired in his arms, immediately after she arrived in France to see him.]

DIALOGUE.

SHE

Yes, we have liv'd-One pang, and then we part ! May Heav'n, dear Father! now have all thy heart. Yet, ah! how once we lov'd, remember still, Till you are dust like me.

HE

Dear shade! I will: Then mix this dust with thine- O spotless ghost ! O more than fortune, friends, or country lost ! Is there on earth one care, one wish beside ? Yes—Save my country, Heav'n—He said, and dy'd. 10

XIV.

On Edmund Duke of Buckingham, who died in the

nineteenth year of his age, 1735.

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IF modest youth, with cool reflection crown'd,
And ev'ry op'ning virtue blooming round,
Could save a parent's justest pride from fate,
Or add one patriot to a sinking state,
This weeping marble had not ask'd thy tear,
Or sadly told how many hopes lie here!
The living virtue now had shone approv'd!
The senate heard him, and his country lov’d.
Yet softer honours and less noisy fame
Attend the shade of gentle Buckingham,
In whom a race, for courage fam'd and art,
Ends in the milder merit of the heart;
And chiefs or sages long to Britain giv'n,
Pays the last tribute of a saint to Heav'n.

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