HIGH WYCOMBE, BUCKS. 1

ON JOHN VEARY.

COULD the proud swelling dome, or awful bust,
Stay putrefaction, or distinguish dust,

Or bribe in truth's despite the voice of fame,
To give the guilty dead a saint's blest name;
Who wou'd they profit? This may then suffice,
This humble stone, to mark where Veary lies.
He needs not this; but weeping gratitude
Wou'd fain do something, and the public good
May need his fair example. Zeal for truth,
With peace, and social love, adorn'd his youth;
His riper years, when care did most abound,
With patience, faith, and fortitude were crown'd;
Wise, cheerful, humble, fearful to offend,
A tender parent, husband, and a friend.

The duties of each state he well supplied,
Liv'd much belov'd, and much lamented died.
And needs there more? Oh, Reader! if thou'rt
wise,

The rest thy conscious soul itself supplies..

་་་་་་་་་

IN A CHURCH-YARD IN KENT.

How awful is the scene while here I tread!
These venerable mansions of the dead;
Time was, these ashes liv'd, and time shall be,
When others thus shall stand and gaze on me.
Awake then, O my soul, true wisdom learn,
Nor till to-morrow the great work adjourn...

ON A YOUNG CLERGYMAN,

IN LONDON.

STRANGER, should'st thou approach this awful shrine,
The merits of the honour'd dead to seek
The friend, the son, the Christian, the divine,
Let those who knew him, those who lov'd him,
speak.

O let them in some pause of anguish say,

What zeal inspir'd, what faith enlarg'd his breast; How soon th' unfetter'd spirit wing'd its way, From earth to heav'n, from blessing, to be blest.

KENSINGTON CHURCH-YARD.

ON MARY FLETCHER, Æ. 65, 1763.
PEACE to thy gentle shade, thy soul is free!
Death's but the gate to immortality.

DEAN PRIOR, DEVON.

ON SIR EDWARD GILES, AND HIS LADY.

No trust to metals nor to marbles, when
These have their fate, and wear away as men;
Times, titles, trophies, may be lost and spent ;
But Virtue rears th' eternal monument.

What more than these can tombs and tombstones

pay ?

But here's the sunset of a tedious day;

These two asleep are, I'll but be undrest,

And so to bed; pray wish us all good rest.

ABERGAVENNY CHURCH.

HERE lyeth one of Abel's race, Whom Cain did hunt from place to place; Yet not dismaid, aboot he went, Working untill his daies were spent. Now having done, he takes a nap, Here, in our cominon mother's lap, Waiting to heare the bridegroom say, "Arise my deare, and come away." Obiit Hen. Maurice, 30 die Julie, 1682.

HIGH WYCOMBE, BUCKS.

ON ELIZA ANN MATHIE,

Who had been six Months married.

SPRINGS and summers scarce nineteen
Had fair Eliza seen,

When Death, as envying that the earth
Should possess so rare a birth,

Snatch'd her from her husband's side-
Almost too young to be a bride!
Those who her op'ning virtues saw,
May thence a sad conjecture draw
Of what this sweet wife would have been,
If she many days had seen ;

If partial Fate, which now we blame,
Had blest her with a mother's name;
But heaven otherwise dispos'd,
And the dark tomb about her clos'd:
The tomb, alas! a bed too cold
So fair, so young a bride t' enfold.

INTENDED BY

MR. PRIOR

FOR HIS OWN MONUMENT.

As doctors give physic by way of prevention, MATT. alive and in health, of his tomb-stone took

care;

For delays are unsafe, and his pious intention
May haply be never fulfill'd by his heir.

Then take MATT's word for it the sculptor is paid; That the figure is fine,* pray believe your own eye;

Yet credit but lightly what more may be said,

For we flatter ourselves, and teach marble to lie. Yet, counting as far as to fifty his years,

His virtues and vices were as other mens are; High hopes he conceiv'd, and he smother'd great fears,

In a life party-colour'd-half pleasure, half care. Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave, He strove to make Int'rest and Freedom agree; In public employments industrious and grave; But, alone with his friends, Lord! how merry was he!

Now in equipage stately; now humbly on foot;

Both fortunes he try'd, but to neither would trust, And whirl'd in the round, as the wheel turn'd about, He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust.

This verse, little polish'd, though mighty sincere, Sets neither his titles nor merits to view :

Alluding to the busto (carved by the famous Coriveaux at Paris) on his monument in Westminster Abbey.

It says that his relics, collected, lie here,

And no mortal yet knows if this may be true. Fierce robbers there are, that infest the highway,

SO MATT. may be kill'd, and his bones never found; False witness at court, and fierce tempests at sea, So MATT. may yet chance to be hang'd or be drown'd.

If his bones lie in earth, roll in sea, fly in air,

To Fate we must yield, and the thing is the same; And if, passing, thou giv'st him a smile or a tear, He cares not-yet pr'ythee be kind to his fame.

ON PRIOR.

By Mr. Beckingham.

MEAN artifice! to gild precarious fame!
A PRIOR bears a statue in his name.

True merit does to heights unlabour'd climb,
And mocks the rust of age, and waste of time.
Thus did Apelles' hand death's rasure brave,
And share the immortality it gave:

Venus and Ammon, in his colours shewn,
Transmit the painter's glory with their own.

ON WILLIAM LAWES, A MUSICIAN.
Killed at the Siege of West-Chester.

Concord is conquer'd; in this urn there lies
The master of great Musick's mysteries ;
And in it is a riddle, like the cause,

Will Lawes was slain by those whose Wills are
Lawes.