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is too well known, and too much admired, to need onr commendation.

Here continueth to rot The Body of FRANCIS CHARTRES, Who with an Inflexible Constancy, And Inimitable Uniformity of Lise, Persisted, In spite of Age and Infirmities, In the Practice of Every Human Vice, Excepting Prodigality and Hypocrisy: His infatiable Avarice exempted him from the sirst. His matchless Impudence from the second. Nor wa» he more singular In the undeviating Pravity of his Manneri, Than successsul In Accumulating Wealth: For, without Trade or Profession, Without Trust of Public Money, And without Bribe-worthy Service, He acquired, or more properly created,

A Ministerial Estate. He was the only Person of his Time Who could Cheat without the Mask of Honesty, Retain his Primæval Meanness When posiefs'd of Ten Thousand a year; And having daily deserved the Giebet sor what he did. Was at last condemn'd to it for what he could not da. Oh Indignant Reader f Think not his Lise 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 Mortals.

This fort 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 lise to obtain his friend a borough,

An Epitaph on Mr. Dove, an Apothecary; who unfortunately murder id himself by canvassing at ElecliJns.

Here He

Sequester'd from the various calamities of lise,
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; lor on the z6:h
of May, 1754, he fell a vidim,
not to the sword, but to the glass.
He was in all respects a truly worthy man;
A kind and steady sriend,
A generous benefactor,

A warm patriot,
An agreeable companion,
A cutter of jokes,
And a great canvasser at elections.
In the most corrupt and abandon'd age,
He maintain'd his independency,
DisdainM every bribe;
Nor cou'd the arts and insinuations of the wicked
Induce him once to play
The part of a Jack-ofboth sides;
But ever six'd and determin'd in his choice,
And aided by the arms of Bacchus,
He gain'd many proselytes 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 foul,
And gain'd thy patriot friend a vote,
Must, with thy virtues, be forgot:
set, of a thousand, one in ten,
May shrug, perhaps, and cry — Po Or Ben!

We (hall conclude this species of poetry with a droll and fatirical Epitaph written by Mr. Popt, which we transcribed from a monument in Lord Cobbatns gardens at Strut

in Buckinghamfliirt.

To the Memory


An Italian of good Extraction;
Who came into England,
Not to bite us, like most of his Countrymen,
But to gain an honest Livelyhood.
He hunted not aster Fame,
Yet acquifd it;
Regardless of the Praise of his Friends,
but most sensible of their Love.
Tho' he liv'd amongst the Great,
He neither learnt nor flatter'd any Vice.
He was no Bigot,
Tho' he doubted of none of the 39 Articles.
And, if to follow Nature,
and to respect the Laws of Society,
be Philosophy,
he was a persect Philosopher;
a faithful Friend,
an agreeable Companion,
a loving Husband,
distinguish'd by a numerous Offspring,
all which he liv'd to see take good Courses.

In his old Age he retired to the House of a Clergyman in the Country, where he sinished his earthly Race, and died an Honour and an Example to the who'.e Species. Reader,

This Stone is guiltless of Flattery,
for he to whom it is inscrib'd
was not a Man,

but a


Os tbl E l E C Y.

TH E E/egy is a mournful and plaintive, but yet a sweet and engaging kind of poem. It was sirst invented to bewail the death of a friend, and afterwards us'd to express the complaints of lovers, or any other dolesul and melancholy subject. In process of time not only matters of grief, but joy, wishes, prayers, expostulations, reproaches, admonitions, and almost every other subject, were admitted into Elegy} however, suneral lamentations and affairs of love seem most agreeable to its character.

The plan of an Elegy, as indeed of all other poem% ought to be made before a line is written; or else the author will ramble in the dark, and his verses have no dependance on each other. . No epigrammatic paints or conceits, none of those fine things which most people are so sond of in every sort of poem, can be allow'd in this, but must give place to nobler beauties, those of Nature and the Passions. Elegy rejects whatever is facetious, fatirica', or majestic, and is content to be plain, decent, and unaffected; yet in this humble state is she sweet and engaging, elegant and attractive. This poem is adorn'd with frequent commiseration!, complaints, exclamation/, addresses to things or perjons, short and proper digressions, allusions, comparisons, prosopopœias or seigned persons, and sometimes with short descriptions. The diction ought to be free srom any harshness; neat, easy, perspicuous, expressive of the manners, tender, and pathetic; and the numbers should be smooth and stowing, and captivate the ear with their uniform sweetness and delicacy.

For an example of a good and mournsul Elegy, I shall insert one written by Mr. Pope, which will give the reader a just idea of the tender and plaintive character of this kind of poem.

To the memory os an unfortunate Lady.

What beck'ning ghost along the moonlight shade Invites my step, and point* to yonder glade?

'Tis she! but why that bleeding bosom gor'd?

Why dimly gleams the visionary sword i
Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,
Is it, in heav'n, a crime to love too well?
To bear too tender, or too sirm a heart,
To act a lover's, or a Roman's part?
Is there no bright reversion in the sky,
For those who greatly think, or bravely die?

Why bade ye else, ye Pow'rs! her foul aspire
Above the vulgar slight of low desire?
Ambition sirst sprang from your blest abodes,
The glorious fault of Angels and of Gods:
Thence to their images on earth it flows,
And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows!
Most fouls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age,
Dull, sullen pris'ners in the body's cage:
Dim lights of lise, that burn a length of years,
Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres;
Like eastern kings a lazy state they keep,
And close consin'd in their own palace steep.

From these perhaps (ere nature bade her die)
Fate fnatch'd her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer spirits flow,
And sep'rate from their kindred dregs below;
So flew the foul to its congenial place,
Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.

But thou, false guardian of a charge too good,
Thou mean deserter of thy brother's blood!
See on these ruby lips the trembling breath,
These cheeks, now fading at the blast of death;
Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before,
And those love-darting eyes must roll no more.
Thus, if eternal justice rules the ball,
Thus shall your wives, and thus your children soli:
On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,-
And frequent herses shall besiege your gates.
There passengers shall stand, and pointing fay,
(While the long sun'rals blacken all the way)
Lo these were they whose souls the suries steel'd,
And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield.
Thus unlamented pass the proud away,
The gaze of fools, and pageants of a day!

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