On Dr. FRANCIS ATTERBURY, Bishop of Rochester, who died in exile at Paris, 1732. [His only Daughter having expired in his arms, immediately after she arrived in France to see him.] DIALOGUE. She. Yes, we have liv'd-one pang, and then we part! He. Dear shade! I will: Then mix this dust with thine-O spotless ghost! Yes-Save my country, heav'n, -He said, and dy'd. I shall conclude these examples of the ferious kind with an Epitaph written by Mr. Smart, to the memory of Master ***, who died of a lingering illness, aged eleven. Henceforth be every tender tear supprest, From grief to bliss, from earth to heav'n remov'd, And in th' eleventh winter died a MAN. Amongst the Epitaphs of a punning and ludicrous caft, I know of none prettier than that which is said to have been written by Mr. Prior on himself, wherein he is pleafantly fatirical upon the folly of those who value themselves on account of the long series of ancestors through which they can trace their pedigree. Nobles and Heralds, by your leave, Here lie the bones of Matthew Prior, Let Bourbon or Nassau go higher. Of the fame cast is that written by Mr. Pope on one who would not be buried in Westminster-abbey. Heroes, and kings! your distance keep, In peace let one poor poet fleep, Let Horace blush, and Virgil too. The following Epitaph on a Miser contains a good caution and an agreeable raillery. Reader, beware immod'rate love of pelf: Here lies the worst of thieves, who robb'd himself. But Dr. Swift's Epitaph on the same subject is, I think, a master-piece of the kind. ΕΡΙΤΑΡΗ on a MISER. Beneath this verdant hillock lies We shall give but one example more of this kind, which is a merry Epitaph on an old Fiddler, who was remarkable (we may suppose) for beating time to his own musick. On STEPHEN the Fiddler. Stephen and Time are now both even; Stephen beat Time, now Time's beat Stephen. We are now come to that fort of Epitaph which rejects Rhyme, and has no certain and determinate measure; but where the diction must be pure and strong, every word have weight, and the antithesis be preserved in a clear and direct oppofition. We cannot give a better example of this fort of Epitaph, than that on the tomb of Mr. Pulteney, in the cloysters of Westminster-Abbey. Reader, If thou art a BRITON, Behold this Tomb with Reverence and Regret: Here lie the Remains of DANIEL PULTENEY, The kindest Relation, the truest Friend, Sagacious by Nature, Industrious by Habit, Inquifitive with Art; He gain'd a complete Knowledge of the State of Britain, Foreign and domeftic. In most the backward Fruit of tedious Experience, In him the early Acquisition of undissipated Youth : He ferv'd the Court several Years: Abroad, in the auspicious Reign of Queen Anne, At home, in the Reign of that excellent Prince K. George the first. He served his Country always, At every Age, and in every Station : Gentle, humane, disinterested, beneficent, He feared none he could create in the Cause of Britain. In this Misfortune of thy Country lament thy own: The Loss of so much private Virtue That poignant satire, as well as extravagant praise, may be conveyed in this manner, will be seen by the following Epitaph written by Dr. Arbuthnot on Francis Chartres; which is too well known, and too much admired, to need our commendation. HERE continueth to rot The Body of FRANCIS CHARTRES, In spite of AGE and INFIRMITIES, In Accumulating WEALTH: He was the only Person of his Time When possess'd of TEN THOUSAND a year; And having daily deserved the GIEBET for what he did, Was at last condemn'd to it for what he could not do. Oh Indignant Reader ! Think not his Life useless to Mankind; PROVIDENCE conniv'd at his execrable Designs, To give to After-ages A confpicuous PROOF and EXAMPLE, Of how small Estimation is EXORBITANT WEALTH in the Sight of GOD, By his bestowing it on the most UNWORTHY OF ALL MORTALS. This fort of Epitaph may also admit of humour and ridicule, as will appear by the following on a boon companion who is supposed to have lost his life to obtain his friend a borough, An EPITAPH on Mr. Dove, an Apothecary; who unfortunately murdered himself by canvassing at Elections. Here lie Sequester'd from the various calamities of life, The remains of Benjamin Dove, A kind and steady friend, An agreeable companion, He was a good Christian in his day, A man of Virtue, Tho' a lover of the Wenches. But none that his friends could fee, Farewel, dear friend, thy glass is run; May shrug, perhaps, and cry - POOR BEN! |