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Yet soft his Nature, tho' severe his Lay,
For him the weeps, for him she weeds again. Yet when these elegiac movements came freely from the heart, he mourns in such itrains as thew he was equally a matter of this kind of Compofition with every other he undertook, as the following lines in the Epifle to Jertas may witness; which would have made the finest Epitaph in the world:
Call round her Tomb each object of defire,
On Sir William TRUMBAL,
One of the Principal Secretaries of State
to King WILLIAM 1H. who having tefigned his Place, died in his Retirement at Easthamsted in Berkshire, 1716.
yet Sincere, tho'prudent; constant, yet resign'd: Honour unchang'd, a Principle profest, Fix'd to one side, but mod rate to the rest: An honest Courtier, yet a Patriot too; Just to his Prince, and to his Country true : Fillid with the Sense of Age, the Fire of Youth, A Scorn of wrangling, yet a Zeal for Truth; A gen'rous Faith, from superstition free; A love to Peace, and hate of Tyranny ; Such this Man was; who now from earth remov'd, At length enjoys that Liberty he lov’d.
On the Hon. Simon HARCOURT,
Only Son of the Lord Chancellor Har
Court; at the Church of Stanton-
O this sad shrine, whoc'er thou art! draw
Here lies the Friend most lov’d, the Son most dear: Who ne'er knew Joy, but friendship might divide, Or gave his Father Grief but when he dy'd.
How vain is Reason, Eloquence how weak ! If Pope must tell what Harcourt cannot speak. Oh let thy once-lov'd Friend inscribe thy Stone, And, with a Father's sorrows, mix his own!
On JAMES CRAGGS, Efq.
JA CO BUS CRAGGS
REGI MAGNÆ BRITANNIÆ A SECRETIS
ET CONSILIIS SANCTIORIBUS, PRINCIPIS PARITER AC POPULI AMOR ET DELICIÆ:
VIXIT TITULIS ET INVIDIA MAJOR
OB. FEB. XVI. MDCCXX.
Statesman, yet Friend to Truth! of Soul sincere,
Intended for Mr. ROWE,
HY reliques, Rowe, to this fair Urn we
trust, And sacred, place by Dryden's awful dust: Beneath a rude and nameless stone he lies, To which thy Tomb Thall guide inquiring eyes.
VARIATIONS. It is as follows, on the Monument in the Abbey erected to
Rowe ad his Daughter.
Thy Reliques, Rowe! to this sad shrine we trust,
To these fo mourn'd in death, fo lov'd in life!