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On SIR ISAAC NEWTON, born December 25th, 1642; died 20th March, 1726.

Approach, ye wise of soul with awe divine,
"Tis Newton's name that consecrates his shrine !
That sun of knowledge whose meridian ray,
Kindled the gloom of nature into day!
That soul of science, that unbounded mind!
That genius which ennobled human kind!
Confess'd supreme of men, his country's pride;
And half esteem'd an angel - till he died;
Who in the eye of Heav'n like Enoch stood,
And thro' the paths of knowledge walk'd with God;
Whose fame extends a sea without a shore?

Who but forsook one world to know the laws of more.

The following couplet was intended for his monument.
Nature and Nature's laws lay hid in night:
God said, Let Newton be, and all was light.

РОРЕ.

In St. George's, Hanover-Square, on the REV. LawRENCE STERNE, A. M. died September 18, 1768; aged 53.

Shall Pride a heap of sculptur'd marble raise,
Some worthless unmourn'd titled fool to praise ;
And shall we not by one poor grave-stone learn,
Where genius, wit, and humour, sleep with Sterne?

GARRICK.

At Stanton Harcourt, Oxon; on the HON. SIMON HARCOURT, only son of the Lord Chancellor Harcourt, who died 1720.

To this sad shrine, whoe'er thou art! draw near,
Here lies the friend most lov'd, the son most dear;
Who ne'er knew joy, but friendship might divide,
Or gave his father grief but when he died.
How vain is reason, eloquence how weak,
If Pope must tell what Harcourt cannot speak ;
Oh let thy once-lov'd friend inscribe thy stone,
And with a father's sorrows mix his own.

POPE.

ON MR. AIKMAN AND HIS SON.

Dear to the wise and good, disprais'd by none,
Here sleep in peace the father and the son.
By virtue as by nature close allied,

The painter's genius, but without the pride.
Worth unambitious, wit afraid to shine,

Honour's clear light, and friendship's warmth divine:
The son fair rising knew too short a date;
But, oh! how more severe a parent's fate!
He saw him torn untimely from his side,
Felt all a father's anguish, wept, and died.

MALLET.

Here lies my poor wife, without bed or blanket,
But dead as a door-nail, God be thanked!

In Brodsworth, Yorkshire; on the HON. Miss DRUMMOND.

Here sleeps what once was beauty, once was grace;
Grace, with that tenderness and sense combin'd
To form that harmony of soul and face,

Where beauty shines, the mirror of the mind.
Such was the maid, that in the morn of youth,
In virgin innocence, in nature's pride;
Blest with each art that owes its charm to truth',
Sunk in her father's fond embrace and died.
He weeps: O venerate the holy tear!

Faith lends her aid to ease Affliction's load ;
The parent mourns the child upon the bier,
The Christian yields an angel to his God.

MASON.

In Bristol Cathedral, on MARY, the Wife of the REV. W. MASON, who died March 27, 1767; aged 28 years.

Take, holy earth, all that my soul holds dear,

Take that best gift, which Heav'n so lately gave ; To Bristol's fount I bore with trembling care

Her faded form; she bow'd to taste the wave, And died does youth, does beauty read the line? Does sympathetic fear their breast alarm ?

Speak, dead Maria, breathe a strain divine;

E'en from the grave thou shalt have pow'r to charm. Bid them be chaste, be innocent like thee; Bid them in duty's sphere as meekly move;

And if so fair, from vanity as free,

As firm in friendship, and as fond in love;

Tell, tho' 'tis an awful thing to die,

('Twas e'en to thee) yet the dread path once trod, Heav'n lifts its everlasting portals high,

And bids the pure in heart behold their God.

MASON.

In Beckenham, Kent; on MRS. MARY CLARKE, Wife of DR. CLARKE, Physician at Epsom, Surrey; who died 27th April, 1757.

Lo! where this silent marble weeps,
A friend, a wife, a mother sleeps;
A heart, within whose sacred cell
The peaceful virtues lov'd to dwell;
Affection warm, and faith sincere,
And soft humanity were there;
In agony, in death resign'd,

She felt the wound she left behind;
Her infant image here below

Sits smiling on a father's woe;

Whom what awaits, while yet he strays
Along the lonely vale of days,
A pang, to secret sorrow dear,
A sigh, an unavailing tear;

Till time shall ev'ry grief remove,
With life, with mem'ry, and with love.

GRAY.

Here lies the bodies of three children dear,
Two buried in the Isle of Wight- the other here.

ON LADY LUCY LYTTLETON.

Made to engage all hearts, and charm all eyes;
Tho' meek, magnanimous; tho' witty, wise:
Polite, as all her life in courts had been ;
Yet good as she the world had never seen.
The noble fire of an exalted mind,
With gentlest female tenderness combin'd:
Her speech was the melodious voice of love,
Her song, the warbling of the vernal grove :
Her eloquence was sweeter than her song,
Soft as her heart, and as her reason strong;
Her form each beauty of her mind exprest;
Her mind was virtue by the graces drest.

LORD LYTTLETON,

On MARIA, from the Carlisle Journal, February, 1820.

A prey to grief and pain no more,
Maria sleeps beneath this tomb;
Whose virtue could no higher soar,

Whose beauty could no sweeter bloom.
Heav'n view'd with care its darling pride,
Too spotless for a world like this;
Left her awhile to sweeten here,

Then snatch'd her for the realm of bliss.

At morn in pride of youth she shone,
So shines the dew drop on the rose ;
At eve she wither'd pale and wan,
So sinks the dew drop to repose.

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