ON RICHARD THE THIRD.

Buried at Leicester, by Order and at the Expence of King
Henry the Seventh.

I, WHO am laid beneath this marble stone,
RICHARD THE THIRD, possess'd the British throne.
My country's guardian in my nephew's claim,
By trust betray'd I to the kingdom came.
Two years and sixty days, save two, I reign'd,
And bravely strove in fight; but unsustain'd
My ENGLISH left me in the luckless field,
Where I to Henry's arms was forc'd to yield.
Yet at his cost my corse this tomb obtains,
Who piously-interr'd me, and ordains

That regal honours wait a king's remains.
Th' year thirteen hundred was and eighty-four,
The twenty-first of August, when its power,
And all its rights, I did to the red rose restore.
Reader, whoe'er thou art, thy prayers bestow,
T'atone my crimes, and ease my pains below.

BY MALLET.

THIS humble grave, tho' no proud structures grace,
Yet truth and goodness sanctify the place :
Yet blameless virtue that adorn'd thy bloom,
Lamented maid! now weeps upon thy tomb,
O'scap'd from life, O safe on that calm shore,
Where sin, and pain, and passion are no more!
What never wealth could buy, nor power decree,
Regard and pity, wait sincere on thee;
Lo! soft remembrance drops a pious tear;
And holy friendship stands a mourner here.

ON SIMON TAYLER, ESQ.

Receiver General for Norfolk.

PENSIVE peruse, and keep, where'er thou art,
This wholesome lesson treasur'd in thy heart :
Tho' to the wealth the heart humane be join'd,'
And all the bless'd benevolence of mind;
Tho' widows hail thee, as thou mov'st along,
And orphans join in the celestial song ;
In blooming youth, adorn'd with every grace,
The noblest offspring of a human race;
The virtues from thy parents handed down,
Kept and increas'd with thousands of thy own:
To ask thy stay, tho' ev'ry streaming eye,
And ev'ry hand were lifted to the sky;
In the same track with Tayler thou must tread,
And join the number of the worthy dead.

ON LORD BALMERINO.

HERE lies a Baron bold; take care;
There may be treason in a tear.
And yet my Arthur may find room,
Where greater folks don't always come.

ON RANDOLPH PETER,

[Of Oriel, the Eater.

WHOE'ER you are, tread softly, I entreat you,

For if he chance to wake, be sure he'll eat you.

ON MASTER NEWBERY.

By C. Smart.

HENCEFORTH be every tender tear supprest,
Or let us weep for joy that he is blest;
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 a
That disposition, sickness could not sour!
That sense, so oft to riper years denied!
That patience, heroes might have own'd with pride!
His painful race undauntedly he ran,
And on th' eleventh winter dy'd a man.

BY DEAN SWIFT.

HERE lies a round woman, who thought mighty odd
Ev'ry word that she heard in this church about God.
To convince her of God the good Dean did endeavour,
But still in her heart she held naturé more clever,
Tho' he talk'd much of virtue, her head always run
Upon something or other she found better fun.
For the dame, by her skill in affairs astronomical,
Imagin'd to live in the clouds was but comical.
In this world she despis'd ev'ry soul she met here,
And now she's in t'other she thinks it but queer.

> LIE light upon him earth! tho' he
Laid many a heavy load on thee.

BLANDFORD, DORSET.

By Christopher Pitt

ON HIS FATHER, MOTHER, AND BROTHER.
YE sacred spirits, while your friends distress'd,
Weep o'er your ashes, and lament the bless'd:
O let the pensive Muse inscribe this stone,
And with the gen'ral sorrow mix her own :
The pensive Muse! who from this mournful hour
Shall raise her voice, and wake the string no more!
Of love, of duty, this last pledge receive,
'Tis all a brother, all a son can give.

ON RICHARD SAVAGE,

THE UNFORTUNATE POET.

FROM рomp
in mind, and meanness in estate,
From rebel passions, still at war with fate,
Now manumiz'd, th' unequal strife is o'er,
Fix'd is his fate, his hopes and fears no more.
Peace to his soul I wish; I hope it too ;
Since in his crimes his punishments we view:
Left to remorse by rage, to scorn by pride,
To friendship wrong'd, a martyr, when he dy'd.*
Oh blam'd yet mourn'd, despis'd yet honour'd shade,
No more thy fame shall spread a chequer'd shade.
Thy faults shall perish, all thy worth shall shine,
For frailty's mortal,-excellence divine:
O'er all the rest, while dark oblivion flows,
Late times shall know thy birth, thy lays, thy woes.
Shall read, admire, compassionate, and praise,
And while they give, with tears bedew the bays.

See P. 178 of his life, where it alludes to Mr. Pope's using the word scoundrel, which the unhappy SAVAGE did not long survive.

BY BEN JONSON.

WHAT beauty would have lovely styl❜d,
What manners pretty, nature mild,
What wonder perfect, all were fill'd
Upon record in this blest child.
And till the coming of the soul
To fetch the flesh, we keep the roll.

BY BEN JONSON.

Reader, stay;

And if I had no more to say,
But here doth lay till the last day
All that is left of PHILIP GRAY,
It might your patience richly pay :
For if such men as he could die,
What surety of life have you and I?

Ask not who ended here his span ;
His name, reproach and praise! was MAN.
Did no great deeds adorn his course?
No deeds of his but show'd him worse,
One thing was great, which God supply'd,
He suffer'd human life, and dy'd.
What points of knowledge did he gain?
That life was sacred all-and vain.
Sacred, how high-and vain, how low-
He knew not here, but dy'd to know.