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Ah no! a shepherd of a different stock,
And far unlike him, feeds this little flock;
A jovial youth, who thinks his sunday's task
As much as God or man can fairly ask;
The rest he gives to loves and labours, light,
To fields the morning, and to feasts the night;
None better skilld the noisy pack to guide,
To
urge

their chace, to cheer them, or to chide;
Sure in his shot, his game he seldom miss'd,
And seldom fail'd to win his game at whist;
Then, while such honours bloom around his head,
Shall be sit sadly by the sick man's bed,
To raise the hope he feels not, or with zeal
To combat fears that e'en the pious feel?

CRABBE

Moon Light.
Now came still evening on, and twilight gray
Had in her sober livery all things clad;
Silence accompanied; for beast and bird,
They to their grassy couch, these to their nests
Were slunk, all but the wakeful' nightingale,
She all night long her amorous descant súng;

Silence

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Silence was pleas'd: 'now glow'd'the 'firmament
With living sapphire; Hesperus, that led
The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon
Rising in clouded majesty, at length
Apparent queen unveild her peerless light
And o'er the dark her silver maritle threw.

MILTON,

On Milton.
Three poets in three distant ages born,
Greece, Italy, and England did adorn:
The first in loftiness of thought surpass'd;
The next in majesty, in both the last.
The force of nature could no farther go;
To make a third, she join'd the other two.

DRYDEN.

On Mr. Fenton. This modest stone, what few vain marbles can, May truly say, "Here lies an honest man.” A poet, bless'd beyond the poet's fate, Whom heaven kept sacred from the proud and great.

Joe

Foe to loud praise, and friend to learned ease,
Content with science in the vale of

peace, Calmly he look'd on either life, and here Saw nothing to regret, or there to fear; From nature's temp’rate feast rose satisfied, Thank'd heav'n that he had liv'd, and that he died.

POPE.

On Sir Isaac Newton.

Nature and nature's laws, lay hid in night; God said, “ Let Newton be!" and all was light.

On Mr. Gay.
Of manners gentle, of affections mild;
In wit a man, simplicity a child;
With native humour temp'ring virtuous rage,
Form’d to delight at once and lash the age:
Above temptation in a low estate,
And uncorrupted e'en among the great:
A safe companion, and an easy friend,
Unblam'd thro' life, lamented in his end.

These

These are thy honours! not that here thy bust
Is mix'd with heroes, or with kings thy dust;
But that the worthy and the good shall say,
Striking their pensive bosorns--Here lies Gay.

POPE.

To a young

Gentleman.
Nature has done her part: do thou but thine;
Learning and sense let decency refine.
For vain applause transgress not virtue's rules:
A witty sinner is the worst of fools.

On Mr. Edmund Burke. Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was

such, We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much; Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind, And to party gave up what was meant for man.

kind. Though fraught with all learning, yet straining

his throat, To persuade Tommy Townsend to lend him a vote;

Who,

Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on re

fining, And thought of convincing, while they thought

of dining; Though equal to all things, for all things unfit, Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit; For a patriot too cool; for a drudge disobedient; And too fond of the right, to pursue the expedient. In short, 'twas his fate unemploy'd, or in place,

Sir, To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.

GOLDSMITH,

On Mr. Cumberland *.

Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;
A flattering painter, who made it his care
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they

are.

His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, And comedy wonders at being so fine:

* Mr. Richard Cumberland, author of the West Indian, Fashionable Lover, the Brothers, and other dramatic pieces, 02

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