INSCRIPTION FOR THE TOMB OF Mr. HAMILTON. PAUSE here, and think: a monitory rhime Confult life's filent clock, thy bounding vein; And many a tomb, like HAMILTON's, aloud EPITAPH ON A HARE. HERE lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue, Whofe foot ne'er tainted morning dew, Old Tiney, furlieft of his kind, Who, nurfed with tender care, And to domeftic bounds confined, Was ftill a wild Jack-hare. Though duly from my hand he took His pittance every night, He did it with a jealous look, And, when he could, would bite. His diet was of wheaten bread And milk, and oats, and ftraw; Thiftles, or lettuces instead, With fand to scour his maw. On twigs of hawthorn he regaled, And, when his juicy falads failed, A Turkey carpet was his lawn, His frisking was at evening hours, For then he loft his fear, But moft before approaching showers, Or when a ftorm drew near. Eight years and five round-rolling moons He thus faw fteal away, Dozing out all his idle noons, I kept him for his humour' fake, My heart of thoughts that made it ache, |