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An EPITAPH on Mr. Dove, an Apothecary; who unfortunately, murdered himself by canvaffing at Elections.

Here lie

Sequefter'd from the various calamities of life,
The remains of Benjamin Dove,
Doctor, and dealer in politics;
Whofe courage and intrepidity expofed him
to many dangers and difficulties, and at
laft to death itself; for on the 26th
of May, 1754, he fell a victim,
not to the word, but to the glass.
He was in all refpects a truly worthy man ;
A kind and steady friend,

A generous benefactor,

A warm patriot,
An agreeable companion,
A cutter of jokes,

And a great canvaffer at elections.
In the most corrupt and abandon'd age,
He maintain'd his independency,
Disdain'd every bribe;

Ner cou'd the arts and infinuations of the wicked
Induce him once to play
The part of a Jack-of-both fides;
But ever fix'd and determin'd in his choice,.
And aided by the arms of Bacchus,
He gain'd many profelytes to the cause
For which he died.

He was a good Chriftian in his day,
And rather inclin'd to the Church than to the Synagogue ;

A man of Virtue,

Tho' a lover of the Wenches.
Some faults he had,

But none that his friends could fee,
Or that his enemies can remember..

Farewel, dear friend, thy glass is run ;
Death has a FINIS Fix d to FUN.
Thofe jokes which o'er the mantling bowl
Regal'd the heart, and chear'd the foul,
And gain'd thy patriot friend a vote,
Muft, with thy virtues, be forgot :
Yet, of a thousand, one in ten,
May brug, perhaps, and cry

POOR BEN!

1

We fhall conclude this fpecies of poetry with a droll and fatirical Epitaph written by Mr. Pope, which we transcribed from a nonument in Lord Cobham's gardens at Stow in Buckinghamshire.

To the Memory
of

SIGNIOR FIDO,

An Italian of good Extraction;
Who came into England,

Not to bite us, like most of his Countrymen,
But to gain an honeft Livelyhood.
He hunted not after Fame,
Yet acquir'd it;

Regardless of the Praise of his Friends,
but moft fenfible of their Love.
Tho' he liv'd amongst the Great,
He neither learnt nor flatter'd any Vice.
He was no Bigot,

"Tho' he doubted of none of the 39 Articles.
And, if to follow Nature,

and to refpect the Laws of Society,
be Philofophy,

he was a perfect Philofopher;
a faithful Friend,

an agreeable Companion,
a loving Hufband,

diftinguish'd by a numerous Offspring,
all which he liv'd to fee take good Courses.
In his old Age he retired
to the House of a Clergyman in the Country,
where he finished his earthly Race,

and died an Honour and an Example to the whole Species.

Reader,

This Stone is guiltlefs of Flattery,

for he to whom it is infcrib'd

was not a MAN,

but a

GREY-HOUND.

T

С Н А Р. Х.

Of the ELEGY.

HE Elegy is a mournful and plaintive, but yet a sweet and engaging kind of poem. It was first invented to bewail the death of a friend, and afterwards us'd to exprefs the complaints of lovers, or any other doleful and melancholy fubject. In process of time not only matters of grief, but joy, wifhes, prayers, expoftulations, reproaches, admonitions, and almost every other fubject, were admitted into Elegy; however, funeral lamentations and affairs of love seem most agreeable to its character.

The plan of an Elegy, as indeed of all other poems, ought to be made before a line is written; or else the author will ramble in the dark, and his verfes have no dependance on each other. No epigrammatic points or conceits, none of those fine things which moft people are so fond of in every fort of poem, can be allow'd in this, but must give place to nobler beauties, thofe of Nature and the Paffions. Elegy rejects whatever is facetious, fatirical, or majeftic, and is content to be plain, decent, and unaffected; yet in this humble state is she sweet and engaging, elegant and attractive. This poem is adorn'd with frequent commiferations, complaints, exclamations, addresses to things or perfons, fhort and proper digreffions, allufions, comparisons, prosopopaias or feigned perfons, and fometimes with fhort descriptions. The diction ought to be free from any barfbness; neat, eafy, perfpicuous, expreffive of the manners, tender, and pathetic; and the numbers fhould be fmooth and flowing, and captivate the ear with their uniform fweetnefs and delicacy.

For an example of a good and mournful Elegy, I fhall infert one written by Mr. Pope, which will give the reader a juft idea of the tender and plaintive character of this kind of poem.

To the memory of an unfortunate LADY.

What beck'ning ghoft along the moonlight shade Invites my step, and points to yonder glade ?

'Tis fhe! but why that bleeding bosom gor'd?
Why dimly gleams the vifionary fword ?
Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,
Is it, in heav'n, a crime to love too well?
To bear too tender, or too firm a heart,
To act a lover's, or a Roman's part?
Is there no bright reversion in the sky,
For those who greatly think, or bravely die?
Why bade ye elfe, ye Pow'rs! her foul aspire
Above the vulgar flight of low defire ?
Ambition firft fprang from your bleft abodes,
The glorious fault of Angels and of Gods:
Thence to their images on earth it flows,
And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows!
Moft fouls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age,
Dull, fullen pris'ners in the body's cage:
Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years,
Ufelefs, unfeen, as lamps in fepulchres;
Like eastern kings a lazy ftate they keep,
And clofe confin'd in their own palace fleep.
From these perhaps (ere nature bade her die}
Fate fnatch'd her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer fpirits flow,

And fep'rate from their kindred dregs below
So flew the foul to its congenial place,
Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.

But thou, falfe guardian of a charge too good,
Thou mean deferter of thy brother's blood!
See on these ruby lips the trembling breath,
These cheeks, now fading at the blast of death;
Cold is that breaft which warm'd the world before,
And those love-darting eyes must roll no more.
Thus, if eternal justice rules the ball,

Thus fhall your wives, and thus your children fall:
On all the line a fudden vengeance waits,
And frequent herfes (hall befiege your gates.
There paffengers fhall ftand, and pointing fay,
(While the long fun'rals blacken all the way)
Lo these were they whose fouls the faries fteel'd,
And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield.
Thus unlamented pafs the proud away,
The gaze of fools, and pageants of a day!

So perish all, whofe breaft ne'er learnt to glow
For others good, or melt at others woe.

What can atone (oh ever-injur'd shade!)
Thy fate unpity'd, and thy rites unpaid?
No friends complaint, no kind domestic tear
Pleas'd thy pale ghoft, or grac'd thy mournful bier ;
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd,

By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd.
By foreign hands thy humble

grave adorn'd,
By ftrangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd!
What tho' no friends in fable weeds appear,
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of woe

To midnight dances, and the public show;
What tho' no facred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb;
Yet fhall thy grave with rifing flow'rs be dreft,
And-the green-turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There fhall the morn her earliest tears beftow,
There the first rofes of the year shall blow;
While Angels with their filver wings o'ershade
The ground, now facred by thy reliques made.
So peaceful refts, without a stone, a name,
What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame :
How lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot;

A heap of duft alone remains of thee,
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!

Poets themselves must fall, like those they fung,
Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.
Ev'n he, whofe foul now melts in mournful lays,
Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays :
Then from his clofing eyes thy form fhall part,
And the laft pang fhall tear thee from his heart:
Life's idle bufinefs at one gafp be o'er,

The mufe forgot, and thou belov'd no more!

But of Elegies on the fubject of death, this by Mr. Gray is one of the beft that has appeared in our language, and may be juftly efteem'd a masterpiece.

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