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On Dr. FRANCIS ATTERBURY, Bishop of Rochefter, who died in exile at Paris, 1732.



[His only Daughter having expired in his arms, immediately after she arrived in France to see him.]


Yes, we have liv'd-one pang, and then we part!
May heav'n, dear father! now have all thy heart.
Yet ah! how once we lav'd, remember still,
Till you are duft like me.

Dear fhade! I will:
Then mix this duft with thine-O fpotless ghost!
O more than fortune, friends, or country lost!
Is there on earth one care, one wish befide?
Yes-Save my country, heav'n,
-He faid, and dy'd.

I fhall conclude thefe examples of the ferious kind with an Epitaph written by Mr. Smart, to the memory of Master **, who died of a lingering illness, aged eleven.

Henceforth be every tender tear fuppreft,

Or let us weep for joy that he is blest;

From grief to blifs, 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 !

That difpofition, fickness cou'd not four!

That fenfe, fo oft to riper years deny'd !

That patience, heroes might have own'd with pride!
His painful race undauntedly he ran,
And in th' eleventh winter died a MAN.

Amongst the Epitaphs of a punning and ludicrous caft, I know of none prettier than that which is faid to have been written by Mr. Prior on himself, wherein he is pleafantly fatirical upon the folly of thofe who value them felves on account of the long feries of ancestors through which they can trace their pedigree.

Nobles and Heralds, by your leave,

Here lie the bones of Matthew Prior,
The fon of Adam and of Eve:

Let Bourbon or Nassau go higher.

Of the fame caft is that written by Mr. Pope on one who would not be buried in Weftminfter-abbey.

Heroes, and kings! your distance keep,
In peace let one poor poet fleep,
Who never flatter'd folks like
Let Horace blufh, and Virgil too.


The following Epitaph on a Miser contains a good caution and an agreeable raillery.

Reader, beware immod'rate love of pelf:

Here lies the worst of thieves, who robb'd himself.

But Dr. Swift's Epitaph on the fame fubject is, I think, a mafter-piece of the kind.


Beneath this verdant hillock lies
Demer, the wealthy and the wife.
His Heirs, that he might fafely reft,
Have put his Carcafs in a Cheft:
The very Cheft, in which, they fay,
His other Self, his Money, lay.
And if his heirs continue kind
To that dear Self he left behind,
I dare believe that four in five
Will think his better Half alive.

We shall give but one example more of this kind, which is a merry Epitaph on an old Fiddler, who was remarkable (we may fuppofe) for beating time to his own mufick.

On STEPHEN the Fiddler.

Stephen and Time are now both even ;

Stephen beat Time, now Time's beat Stephen.

We are now come to that fort of Epitaph which rejects Rhyme, and has no certain and determinate measure; but where the diction must be pure and strong, every word have weight, and the antithefis be preserved in a clear and direct oppofition. We cannot give a better example of this fort of Epitaph, than that on the tomb of Mr. Pulteney, in the cloyfters of Westminster-Abbey.


If thou art a BRITON,

Behold this Tomb with Reverence and Regret:
Here lie the Remains of

The kindest Relation, the trueft Friend,

The warmest Patriot, the worthiest Man;
He exercised Virtues in this Age,
Sufficient to have diftinguish'd him even in the best.
Sagacious by Nature,
Induftrious by Habit,
Inquifitive with Art;

He gain'd a complete Knowledge of the State of Britain, Foreign and domeftic.

In most the backward Fruit of tedious Experience, In him the early Acquifition of undiffipated Youth: He ferv'd the Court feveral Years:

Abroad, in the aufpicious Reign of Queen Anne, At home, in the Reign of that excellent Prince K. George the first. He ferved his Country always, At Court independent, In the Senate unbiass'd, At every Age, and in every Station : This was the bent of his generous Soul, This the Bufinefs of his laborious Life.

Public Men, and Public Things,
He judged by one conftant Standard,
The true Intereft of Britain:
He made no other Distinction of Party,
He abhorred all other :.
Gentle, humane, difinterested, beneficent,
He created no Enemies on his own Account :
Firm, determin'd, inflexible,

He feared none he could create in the Caufe of Britain.


In this Misfortune of thy Country lament thy own:
For know,

The Lofs of fo much private Virtue
Is a public Calamity.

That poignant fatire, as well as extravagant praife, may be conveyed in this manner, will be feen by the following Epitaph written by Dr. Arbuthnot on Francis Chartres; which

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

HERE continueth to rot


In fpite of AGE and INFIRMITIES,
In the Practice of EVERY HUMAN VICE,
His infatiable AVARICE exempted him from the first,
His matchlefs IMPUDENCE from the fecond.
Nor was he more fingular

In the undeviating Pravity of his Manners,
Than fuccefs ful

In Accumulating WEALTH:

And without BRIBE-WORTHY Service,
He acquired, or more properly created,

He was the only Person of his Time

Who could CHEAT without the Mask of HONESTY, Retain his Primæval MEANNESS

When poffefs'd of TEN THOUSAND a year;

And having daily deferved the GIBBET for what he did,
Was at laft condemn'd to it for what he could not do.
Oh Indignant Reader!

Think not his Life ufelefs to Mankind ;.
PROVIDENCE Conniv'd at his execrable Defigns,
To give to After-ages

A confpicuous PROOF and EXAMPLE,
Of how fmall Eftimation is EXORBITANT WEALTH
in the Sight of GOD,

By his bestowing it on the moft 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 fuppofed to have loft his life to obtain his friend a borough,

An EPITAPH on Mr. Dove, an Apothecary; who unfortunately murdered himself by canvaffing at Elections.

Here lie

Sequefter'd from the various calamities of life,
The remains of Benjamin Dove,
Doctor, and dealer in politics;
Whofe courage and intrepidity expofed him
to many dangers and difficulties, and at
laft to death itself; for on the 26th

of May, 1754, he fell a victim,
not to the word, but to the glass.
He was in all refpects a truly worthy man ;
A kind and steady triend,
A generous benefactor,
A warm patriot,

An agreeable companion,
A cutter of jokes,
And a great canvaffer at elections.

In the most corrupt and abandon'd age,
He maintain'd his independency,
Difdain'd every bribe;

Nor cou'd the arts and infinuations of the wicked
Induce him once to play

The part of a Jack-of-both fides;
But ever fix'd and determin'd in his choice,
And aided by the arms of Bacchus,

He gain'd many profelytes to the caufe
For which he died.

He was a good Chriftian 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 fee,
Or that his enemies can remember.
Farewel, dear friend, thy glass is run;
Death has a FINIS Fix'd to FUN.
Thofe jokes which o'er the mantling bowl
Regal'd the heart, and chear'd the foul,
And gain'd thy patriot friend a vote,
Muft, with thy virtues, be forgot:
Yet, of a thousand, one in ten,
May Jbrug, perhaps, and cry POOR BEN!

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