ON COWLEY, THE POET. :

Written in Latin by himself, and translated by Addison,
FROM life's superfluous cares enlarg'd,
His debt of human toil discharg'd,
Here COWLEY lies! beneath this shed,
To ev'ry worldly int'rest dead;
With decent poverty content,
His hours of ease not idly spent ;
To fortune's goods a foe profest,

And hating wealth, by all carest.

'Tis true he's dead; for oh! how small
A spot of earth is now his all :
Oh! wish that earth may lightly lay,
And every care be far away;

Bring flowers; the short-liv'd roses bring,
To life deceas'd, fit offering:

And sweets around the poet strow,

While yet with life his ashes glow.

IN ALL-HALLOWS, STAINING, LONDON.

OUR Holt (alas!) hath stint his hold,
By Death call'd hence in haste,
Whose christian name being Christopher,
With Christ is better plac'd.

In Sawton born of gentle race,
In London spent his days,

A clerke that was in Custom House,

In credit many wayes.

So that altho' we feel the losse

Of this so dear a friend,

His life well spent while he was here,

Hath gain'd a better end.

ON DR. SCANDELLA.

Who died of an Epidemic Fever, at New York, which he caught from his Attendance on the Sick, at Philadelphia.

CLOS'D are those eyes, alas! for ever clos'd,

Which beam'd so sweetly with expression mild, With soft intelligence, and look compos'd,

Spoke the calm soul, untorn by passions wild.
Hush'd is the music of that voice, whose sound,
To converse eloquent gave added charms,
In icy fetters now for ever bound,

Harmonious accents! Death thy power disarms,
Oh! my lost friend, for thee my tears will flow!
Yet why lament? How nobly thou didst fall!
"Died he in battle?" cries the soldier.

No; No warrior proud! Benevolence was all His glory, and he sought not to destroy

His suff'ring fellow creatures, but to save: The rage of pestilence he strove t' alloy,

And snatch the panting victim from the grave. He whisper'd comfort to the sinking soul,

Whose last faint accents bless his gen'rous aid. Contagious sighs, around his heart they stole ; Quick through his frame their deadly influence spread,

And sudden hurl'd him (oh! untimely doom)
In pride of youth and virtue, to the tomb.

ON A MILLER.

DEATH, without warning, was as bold as briefe, When he killed two in one, a miller and a thiefe.

ON A YOUNG LADY.

THIS mournful hearse approach each weeping fair,
Your once-lov'd, dear LOUISA claims the tear.
In her shone beauty, youth, and wit combin❜d,
A form angelic, with an angel-mind :

Ah! what avail'd youth, beauty, wit combin'd,
Her form angelic, and her angel-mind?

See the poor relics of this goodly store,
And youth, and wit, and beauty boast no more.

THOMAS ANDERSON,

OF GALES, NEAR RICHMOND, IN YORKSHIRE.
Departed this Life December 11th, 1752, aged 31.
STOP, Traveller!

I've pass'd-repass'd

The seas, and distant lands,
Can find no rest

But in my Saviour's hands.

The unfortunate person whose memory is here perpetuated, was shot for deserting from Sir John Ligonier's regiment of dragoons, at Shrewsbury. The above lines were inscribed on his tomb stone at his own particular desire.

CONFIDE not, reader, in thy youth and strength, 75 But more than both the present moment prize, A Graves here surround thee, of each breadth and length, And thou may'st be (perhaps) the next that dies.

ST.(GILES'S CHURCH, SALOP.

ON WILLIAM WHITE,

Quartermaster of Horse in the reign of King William the Third.

IN Irish wars I fought for England's glory;
Let no man scoff at telling of this story:

I saw great SCHOMBERG fall, likewise the brave Sr.
RUTH,

And here I come to die, not there in my youth. Through dangers great I have past many a storm: Die we must all, as sure as we are born.

ELY CHURCH-YARD.

READER! let other tomb-stones o'er this plain,
To please thy taste, poetic lines impart ;'

This humble monument shall seek to gain,

Shall hope to meliorate thy feeling heart. Would'st thou enjoy eternity? Be wise; Endure, with steady faith, the ills of fate, Thus at the close of life, thy soul shall rise. To endless pleasures in a future state. Hope not that rash and never-ceasing tears, For expectation cross'd, thy God shall move; But know, for patient christians he prepares ¦ A crown of glory in the realms above. Whilst all beneath this solemn yew tree shade Enforce the sentence "Life must shortly end !" Qh strive to gain the life that never fades,

And heed the whispers of thy clay cold friend !

ON MISS KATHERINE JERVOISE.

Who died June 28, 1795, in the 15th year of her age.

ADIEU, sweet maid! thus early snatch'd away
From all that life with hopeful youth could give;
Kind Heaven itself denied a longer stay,

Than just to shew, in you, how we might live.
Though young, thy age, in Reason's scale mature,
Arriv'd to where but few can farther rise,
And yet remain'd in conscious virtue pure,
Without a taint of folly or of vice.

All that with safety this frail world can grant,
You tasted in domestic peace and love:
What man on earth could such an angel want?
What surer pledge of happiness above?

ON DR. LOWTH,

BISHOP OF LONDON.

Ir learning, genius, manners, void of guile,
The schoolman's labour, and the churchman's toil;
If brightest parts, devoted but to good,

A soul which ev'ry selfish view withstood;

If heavenly Charity's most winning charms,
And boundless Love, with ever outstretch'd arms;
If all the tender and domestic train

Of private Virtues, such as grace the plain,
If God's vicegerents, acting on that plan
Which most endears man's dignity to man,

E'er won thy heart-Lowth's sacred shrine survey,
And with a weeping world thy tearful tribute pay.