ON THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH.
BY DR. EVANS, of oxford.
The Duchess having offered a considerable sum to him that
should write the best epitaph on the Duke, her husband.
HERE lies JOHN DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH,
Who run the French thorough and thorough;
He marry'd Sarah Jennings, spinster,
Dy'd at St. James's, bury'd at Westminster.
yee that passe by, on this pillar cast eye, to This epitaph read if you can;
'Twill tell you a tombe onc't stood in this roome Of a brave spirited man.
JOHN MANDEVILLE by name, a knight of great fame,
Borne in this honored towne.*
Before him was none, that ever was knowne,
For travaile of so high renowne.
As the knights in the Temple, cross-legged in marble,
In armour with sword and with sheeld,
So was this knight grac'd, which time has defac'd,
That nothing but ruines doth yield.
His travailes being done, he shines like the sun,
In heavenly CANAAN.
To which blessed place, O Lord of his grace,
Bring us all, man after man.
*He was certainly born in this town, but as to his lying here, that is, perhaps, a mistake; for in the Guillamites church, in the city of Liege, there is a tomb erected to him, with a Latin inscription, and they there show you his knives, the furniture of his horse, and the spurs which he used in his travels.
ON JOHN TISSEY,
A great Punster.
MERRY was he for whom we all now are sad;
His jokes were many, and but few were bad;
The gay, the jocund, sprightly, active soul,
No more shall pun; alas! no more shall bowl.
Now at his tomb, methinks I hear him say,
I never lik'd to be in a grave way;
Then by and by, he cries, for all your scoffing,
I now am only in a fit of coffin.
Thy passing bell with heavy hearts we hear,
For thee each passing belle shall drop a tear;
That sable hearse that drew thy corpse along,
Shall be rehears'd in dismal poet's song.
Ah, how unlike! yet this is he, we're sure,
Who once in Grafton's coach sat so demurc.
Many a ball he gracefully began,
Well may we bawl, to lose so great a man.
Thy friendly club their mighty loss deplore,
Their faithful secretary, now no more!
Thou ne'er shalt secret tarry, tho' in death,
While
puns are puns, or punning men have breath.
BENEATH this gravel and those stones,
Lie poor JACK TISSEY'S skin and bones;
His flesh, I oft have heard him say,
He hop'd, in time, would make good hay
Quoth I, how can that come to pass?
When he replied, "all flesh is grass."
BENEATH this stone, by the bone of his bone,
Sleeps Master John Gill;
By lies, when alive, this attorney did thrive,
And now that he's dead he lies still.
Occasioned by seeing his bust in Westminster Abbey, with nothing but his name inscribed thereon.
READER! with awe approach this sacred bust,
Revere the shrine, and hail the hallow'd dust;
Ye Muses, all the sweets of fancy bring,
The summer's full blown pride, and bloom of spring,
Come crown'd with garlands from your roseate bowers,
And the sad shrine perfume with choicest flowers;
Or hear him, Fancy, from the dread abode,
Glow in each line, and thunder with the God.
Thy name, oh Dryden! by the Muse belov'd,
By all admir'd, by all mankind approv'd!
Shall shoot and flourish in perpetual day,
Till time grows old, and memory waste away:
Though dumb the bust, yet future bards shall tell,
None ever soar'd so high, or more lamented fell.
THIS Sheffield rais'd! The sacred dust belowice Was Dryden's once; the rest who does not know??
ON THE SUDDEN AND MUCH-LAMENTED DEATH OF THE
RIGHT HON. SIR JOHN PARNELL, BART.
Late Chancellor of the Irish Exchequer.
PARNELL is dead! that heart, to friendship dear,
No longer shines on those within its sphere.
Though sudden was the stroke, shall we complain
That Heav'n, in pity, sav'd him hours of pain?
Parnell is dead! nor leaves behind, on earth,
A name more rich in social, patriot worth :
Nor place, nor title, sway'd his nobler mind,
Great as he fill'd them, greater he resign'd.
An empire's just regret his hearse attends,
Dear to his country, honour'd by his friends
And long shall filial tears, and friendship's sighs,
Point to the sacred spot where Parnell lies.
ON JOANNA BYRON. do ¿omen 7!**
Who died March 18, 1694, aged 11 years.
ADMIR'D, belov'd, lamented infancy, among wor
Hurry'd away, does here untimely lie,
Too good to live, and yet too young to die.
Hard fate, that best of things must be
Always the plunder of the grave and thee.
What grief can vent this loss, or praises tell,
How young, how good, how beautiful she fell.
Complete in all but days, resign'd her breath,
Who never disobey'd, but in her death.
How! how! who's buried here?
An elder-BERRY buried! surely must
Rather rise up, and live, than turn to dust:
So may our BERRY, whom stern death has slain,
Be only buried to rise up again.
ON THOMAS KEMP.
Hanged for Sheep-stealing.
HERE lies the body of THOMAS KEMP,
Who liv'd by wool, but dy'd by hemp;
There's nothing would suffice this glutton,
But, with the fleece, to steal the mutton;
Had he but work'd, and liv'd uprighter,
He'd ne'er been hang'd for a sheep-biter.
KEEPER OF KEW GATE.
By John O'Combe, Parish Clerk.
OLD WILL, who kept the gate at Kew,"
And kindly let all people through,
Was one day treated most uncivil,
Either by death, or by the devil;
For one, without or noise or strife,
Shut upon WILL the gate of life.
|