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On Dr. FRANCIS ATTERBURY, Bishop of Rochester, who

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

Ske. 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.

Dear shade! I will:
Then mix this duft with thine- spotless ghost !
O more than fortune, friends, or country lost !
Is there on earth one care, one with beside ?
Yes—Save my country, heav'n,

He said, and dy'd.

I shall conclude thefe examples of the ferious kind with an Epitaph written by Mr. Smart, to the memory of Master ***, who died of a lingering illness, aged eleven.

Henceforth be every tender tear supprest,
Or let us weep for joy that he is bleft;
From grief to bliss, from earth to heav'n remov'd,
His mem'ry honour'd, as his life belov’d.
That heart o'er which no evil e'er had pow'r!
That disposition, fickness cou'd not four !
That fense, so oft to riper years deny'd !
That patience, heroes might have own'd with pride !
His painful race undauntedly he ran,

And in th' eleventh winter died a MAN. Amongst the Epitaphs of a punning and ludicrous caft, I know of none prettier than that which is said to have been written by Mr. Prior on himself, wherein he is pleasantly satirical upon the folly of thofe who value themselves on account of the long series of ancestors through which they can trace their pedigree.

Nobles and Heralds, by your leave,

Here lie the bones of Matthew Prior,
The son of Adam and of Eve :

Let Bourbon or Nalau go higher.

let In peace

Of the same cast is that written by Mr. Pope on one who would not be buried in Westminster-abbey. Heroes, and kings ! your distance keep,

one poor poet sleep, Who never flatter'd folks like you :

Let Horace blush, and Virgil too. The following Epitaph on a Miser contains a good cau. tion and an agreeable raillery.

Reader, beware immod'rate love of pelf:
Here lies the worst of thieves, who robb'd himself.

But Dr. Swift's Epitaph on the same subject is, I think, a mafter-piece of the kind.

Beneath this verdant hillock lies
Demer, the wealthy and the wife.
His Heirs, that he might safely rest,
Have put his Carcass in a Cheji:
The very Cheft, in which, they say,
His other Self, his Money, lay.
And if his heirs continue kind
To that dear Self he left behind,
I dare believe that four in five

Will think his better Half alive. We shall give but one example more of this kind, which is a merry Epitaph on an old Fiddler, who was remarkable (we may suppose) for beating time to his own musick.

On STEPHEN the Fiddler.
Stephen and Time are now both even ;

Stephen beat Time, now Time's beat Stephen. We are now come to that sort of Epitaph which rejects Rhyme, and has no certain and determinate measure ; but where the diction must be pare and strong, every word have weight, and the antithesis be preserved in a clear and direct opposition. We cannot give a better example of this sort of Epitaph, than that on the tomb of Mr. Pulteney, in the cloysters of Westminster-Abbey.


If thou art a BRITON,
Behold this Tomb with Reverence and Regret:

Here lie the Remains of

The kindeft Relation, the truest Friend,
The warmest Patriot, the worthiest Man ;

He exercised Virtues in this Age,
Sufficient to have distinguish'd him even in the best.

Sagacious by Nature,
Industrious by Habit,

Inquifitive with Art;
He gaind a complete Knowledge of the State of Britain,

Foreign and domeftic.
In most the backward Fruit of tedious Experience,
In him the early Acquisition of undissipated Youch :

He serv'd the Court several Years :
Abroad, in the auspicious Reign of Queen Anne,
At home, in the Reign of that excellent Prince K. George the first.

He served his Country always,

At Court independent,

In the Senate unbiass'd,
At every Age, and in every Station :
This was the bent of his generous Soul,
This the Business of his laborious Life.

Public Men, and Public Things,
He judged by one constant Standard,

The true Interest of Britain :
He made no other Ditinction of Party,

He abhorred all other :.
Gentle, humane, disinterested, beneficent,
He created no Enemies on his own Account :

Firm, determin'd, inflexible,
He feared none he could create in the Cause of Britair.

In this Misfortune of thy Country lament thy own :

For know,
The Loss of so much private Virtue

Is a public Calamity.

That poignant fatire, as well as extravagant praise, may be conveyed in this manner, will be seen by the following Epitaph written by Dr. Arbuthnot on Francis Chartres, which

is too well known, and too much admired, to need our commendation,

Here continueth to rot

In spite of Age and INFIRMITIES,
In the Practice of Every HUMAN Vice,

Excepting PRODIGALITY and HYPOCRISY : His insatiable Avarice exempted him from the first, His matchless IMPUDENCE from the second.

Nor was he more fingular
In the undeviating Pravity of his Manners,

Than successful

In Accumulating Wealth:
For, without Trade or Profes810N,

Without TRUST of Public Money,
And without BRIBE-WORTHY Service,
He acquired, or more properly created,


He was the only person of his Time
Who could cheat without the Mask of Honesty,

Retain his Primæval MEANNESS
When possess'd of Ten THOUSAND a year ;
And having daily deserved the GIBBET for what he did,
Was at last condemn'd to it for what he could not do.

Oh Indignant Reader !
Think not his Life useless to Mankind;.
PROVIdence conniv'd at his execrable Designs,

To give to After-ages
A conspicuous Proof and EXAMPLE,
Of how small: Estimation is EXORBITANT WEALTH

in the Sight of GOD, By his bestowing it on the most UNWORTHY of ALL


This sort of Epitaph may also admit of humour and ridicule, as will appear by the following on a boon companion who is supposed to have lost his life to obtain his friend a borough,

An EPITAPH on Mr. Dove, an Apothecary; who unfortunately murdered bimself by canvassing at Elections.

Here lie
Sequefter'd from the various calamities of life,

The remains of Benjamin Dove,

Doctor, and dealer in politics ;
Whose courage and intrepidity exposed him
to many dangers and difficulties, and at
last to death itself; for on the 26:h
of May, 1754, he fell a victim,

not to the sword, but to the glass.
He was in all respects a truly worthy man ;

A kind and steady friend,
A generous berefactor,

A warm patriot,
An agreeable companion,

A cutter of jokes,
And a great canvafler ac elections.
In the most corrupt and abandon'd age,
He maintain'd his independency,

Disdain'd every bribe ;
Nor cou'd the arts and infinuations of the wicked

Induce him once to play

The part of a Jack-of-both fides ;
But ever fix'd and determind in his choice,

And aided by the arms of Bacchus,
He gain'd many profelytes to the cause

For which he died.

He was a good Christian in his day,
And rather inclin'd to the Church than to the Synagogue ;

A man of Virtue,
Tho' a lover of the Wenches.

Some faults he had,
But none that his friends could see,

Or that his enemies can remember.
Farewel, dear friend, thy glass is run ;
Death has a Finis Fix'd to Fun.
Those jokes which o'er the mantling bowl
Regal'd the heart, and cheard the soul,
And gain'd thy patriot friend a wote,
Muft, with thy virtues, be forgot :
Yet, of a thousand, one in ten,
May shrug, perhaps, and cry - Poor Ben!

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