But when grown hoarfe by diabolic cries, Our fex have long thro' ufurpation reign'd, And by their tyranny their rule maintain'd; 'Till wanton grown by arbitrary fway, "Depos'd by you they practise to obey;" Uniform in action-your pious will the fame, || Alluding to the calumny of her enemies. EPITAPHS. IMPROMPTU on the Death of a CANARY-BIRD. AT length poor Dicky's gone to rest, Whose warbling notes, whilft living, did inspire The grave, the dull, the fullen breast With homefelt joys, and animated fire. Oft did he skip from fide to fide Waking each morn in his plumage pride Yet after all his foothing lays, In dreary Death he found a fatal truft; For Dicky having seen his days, Is gone, alas! to his eternal rooft. As As many verses had appeared under the title of Epitaphs, upon the death of the late General Wolfe, the Author was induced [as if any thing in him could excel] to attempt fomething under the fame head, which, more to oblige an acquaintance than please himself, he did as follows; not without a juft sense, that fulfome praise, like burlefque, is but calumny at beft; and therefore, tho' his wishes to do juftice to fo noble a character may fall short in words, he endeavoured to fupply that defect, by faying in familiar numbers, the whole of what he thought his memory deserved. ЕР І ТАР Н, On the late GENERAL WOLFE. Mors omnibus communis. READER, attend! within this grave remains The shatter'd body of a valiant man, Whose joy was center'd in thofe dread domains, Which fhortens life, and renders it a span. The The field of war, where kings decide their wrongs, By them upheld with pride, with wealth and hate, Is where this man (a loss in martial songs) In conqu❜ring fell a martyr to his fate. Nor yet devoid of courage or of fkill, His mind (with ardent emulation fir'd) But, ah! how fatal was that conqu❜ring hour, Thus was he levell'd with the humble earth, Virtue and valour now furvive his doom, And fing his praise throughout the British land; While they're recorded in this awful loom ||, Let ev'ry heart be his that takes command. Westminster-Abbey. IMPROMPTU, on the Death of the late Princess Dowager of Wales. PEACE to her manes !—the fatal hour is past, When death approach'd, and pierc'd his pointed dart; Here envy's rage into oblivion's caft, And fame will spring from ev'ry human heart. While thus I mufe, let ev'ry foul around Since all her wrongs were but an empty found, Death in itself now opes the gate of fame, While envy's valves are rivetted with gloom, Nor more the villain fhall his hate proclaim, 'Gainst her who's thrown to an eternal doom. Deep is the thought that leads me to these lines, |