ON SIR WILLIAM D'AVENANT.

HERE lies the subject of immortal praise,
Who did from PHOEBUS' hand receive his bays:
Admir'd by all, envied alone by those
Who for his glories made themselves his foes:
Such were his virtues, that they could command
A general applause from ev'ry hand:
His exit then this on record shall have,
A clap did usher D'Avenant to his grave.

GLASTONBURY, SOMERSETSHIRE.

ON CAPTAIN DYER.

WHOм neither sword nor gun in warr
Could slay, in peace a cough did marr;
'Gainst rebels he, and lust and sin,
Fought the good fight, died life to win.
Done by Alexander, his son.

ON A FEMALE SERVANT.

Aged 22 years.

YE rich and great, who bribe the poet's lays,
To deck the sculptur'd tomb with fulsome praise;
Who cause sublime the pompous line to flow,
For fancy'd virtue, and for fancy'd woe:
Dare not to scoff at this unpolish'd stone,
(Rough as the honest verse that's grav'd thereon)
Which marks the humble spot, where real worth
Now yields her poor remains to Mother Earth.

ON MRS. DEATH,

COMEDIAN, LATE OF THE NORWICH COMPANY.

HERE lies DEATH'S wife: when this way next

tread,

Be not surpris'd should DEATH himself be dead.

you

ON THE REV. MR. G. WHITFIELD, In his Chapel, in Tottenham Court Road. HE, like his master, was by some despis'd, Like him by many others lov'd and priz'd; But theirs shall be the everlasting crown, Not whom the world but Jesus Christ shall own.

INSCRIPTION

ON A TOMB-STONE, IN HERTFORDSHIRE.

ADJUDG'D to bliss, the saints shall rise,
To meet their Saviour in the skies,
And live where pleasure never dies.
Condemn'd, the sinners shrink to hell;
The sad reverse consider well,

"With endless burnings who can dwell?"

ON MR. STRANGE.

HERE lies one Strange, no Pagan, Turk, nor Jew, 'Tis Strange, but not so strange as it is true.

SOMERSETSHIRE,

ON A FREETHINKER AND GAMBLER.
HERE lies a sceptic long in doubt,
If death would kill the soul or not;
Death ends his doubtfulness at last,
Convinc'd-but oh! the die is cast.

IN ST. LAWRENCE'S CHURCH-YARD,

KENT.

THE grave is a refining pot,
Unto believers' eyes,

'Tis there the flesh will lose its dross,
And like the sun shall rise.

ON JOHN TAYLOR,

THE WATER POET.

HERE lies the water poet, honest John,
Who rowed on the streams of Helicon;
Where, having many rocks and dangers past,
He at the haven of heav'n arriv'd at last.

ON KITTY FISHER,

Who died soon after she was married.

SHE wedded-to live honest ; but, when tried, Th' experiment she lik'd not-and so died.

WESTON FAVELL, NEAR NORTHAMPTON.

HERE lie the remains of the

REV. JAMES HERVEY, A. M.

Late rector of this parish, that very pious man, and much admired author, who died Dec. the 25th, 1758, in the 45th year of his age.

Reader, expect no more; to make him known Vain the fond elegy and figur'd stone:

A name more lasting shall his writings give, There view display'd his heavenly soul, and live.

ON JOHN UNDERWOOD.

АH cruel death! that dost no good,
With thy destructive maggots;
Now thou hast cropt our UNDERWOOD,
What shall we do for faggots?

ON A DRUNKARD.

BYBAX, the drunkard, while he liv'd, would say, The more I drink, the more methinks I may : But see how death hath prov'd his saying just, For he hath drunk himself as dry as dust.

HORNSEY CHURCH-YARD.

LOVELY in death, so on the verdant plain,

Falls the fair flow'ret overcharg'd with rain ;

Thus early, transient, pure as snow new driv'n,

"She sparkled, was exhal'd, and went to heav'n."

HORNSEY.

ON W. COX,

Who died of the small-pox.
In love I liv'd; in peace I died;
I strove to live, but God denied ;
Then the small-pox cost me my life;
Behind I have left my intended wife.
I am gone, in hopes my peace to find,
And left my dearest friends behind.

'

BERCHINTON CHURCH-YARD, IN KENT.

ON AN INFANT.

АH! why so soon, just as the bloom appears,
Drops the fair blossom in this vale of tears?
Death view'd the treasure to the desart giv'n,
And claim'd the right of planting it in heav'n.

ON GRAY, THE POET.

YE lovers, robb'd of all your souls held dear, Ye maidens, sorrowing for your lovers true; Ye orphans, weeping o'er your father's bier,

Now mourn for him, who best could mourn for you.
For here he lies, who knew, in tender strains,
Το pour the artless, elegiac lay,

To lull your sorrows, and to sooth your pains,
Here lies the gen'rous, sympathetic Gray.