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But when the powers of wit combine,
With pleasing force to warm;
Where wisdom, genius, honour, shine,
Oh! how resist the charm!

While reason, and reflection's aid,
Can only fan the fire;

And strengthen all impressions made,
Not quell the fond desire.

With books I try'd to sooth my pain,
And all my suff'rings ease:
Alas! no authors entertain;
No wit but his can please.

If of philosophy they treat,
My passion they renew;
The sage, of all the most complete,
Is present to my view.

His image to efface I sought,
And tear it from my breast;
But oh! how vain! whilst ev'ry thought
Recalls the fatal guest.

The conflict's o'er, be calm my heart,
And cease thy fate to mourn :
By merit gain'd, endure the smart,
Tho' hopeless of return.

Original Poems from the French.

ODE TO SLEEP.

SLEEP, thy balmy aid apply!
Calm to rest my wakeful woes!
Sorrow's cheek, O gently dry!
Sorrow's eye in slumber close!

Fancy, then, shall hold her reign;
Hope shall sooth the pensive mind;
Stella, then, shall smile again;
Stella shall again be kind.

Lost to all we most adore,

What has life that's worth our care? Sleep, to my fond arms restore

Stella faithful, kind, and fair!

But, tho' once so fair and kind,

Should those dreams of love be past!
Ah then! what solace may I find?
Still let me sleep-and sleep my last.

Cartwright.

EPITAPH

ΟΝ

WILLIAM SHENSTONE, ESQ.

WHOE'ER thou art, with rev'rence tread "The sacred mansions of the dead

Not that the monumental bust,

Or sumptuous tomb here guards the dust
Of rich or great; (let wealth, rank, birth,
Sleep undistinguis'd in the earth!)

This simple urn records a name,
That shines with more exalted fame.

Reader! if genius, taste refin'd,
A native elegance of mind;
If virtue, science, manly sense;
If wit, that never gave offence,
The clearest head, the tenderest heart,
In thy esteem e'er claim'd a part,
Ah! smite thy breast, and drop a tear,
For, know, thy Shenstone's dust lies here.

Garrick.

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READER,

EPITAPH

ON

MR. JOSEPH MITCHELL,

A famous Sportsman.

On the grave-stone is delineated a hare run down; from a label at her mouth proceeds this motto,

"I HAVE FINISH'D MY COURSE."

If ever sport to thee was dear,
Drop on Joe Mitchell's grave a tear;
Who when alive with nimble eye,
Did myriads of hares descry.
He was professor of the art,
Those animals to find and start.
All arts and sciences beside,
This hare-brain'd hero did deride:
An utter foe to wedlock's noose,
In which close state appear'd no meuse.
Joe scorn'd this earth, he was above it,
But only for form's sake did love it;
But Joe at length was spy'd by death,
And cours'd and run quite out of breath.
No shifting, winding turn, could save
Joe from the all-devouring grave.
As greyhound with superior force
Seizes poor puss and ends her course;
So stopt the fates this sportsman true,
Who now for ever bids adieu
To quick soho! and loud halloo !

}

EPITAPH

ON

LORD AUBREY BEAUCLERK.

WHILE Britain boasts her empire o'er the deep,
This marble shall compel the brave to weep;
As men, as Britons, and as soldiers, mourn
O'er dauntless, loyal, virtuous Beauclerk's urn;
Sweet were his manners, as his soul was great;
And ripe his worth, tho' immature his fate :
Each tender grace that love and joy inspires,
Living, he mingled with his martial fires;
Dying, he bade Britannia's thunder roar,
And Spain still felt him, when he breath'd no more.

Young.

EPITAPH.

A GENEROUS foe, a faithful friend—
A victor bold here met his end.
He conquer'd both in war and peace;
By death subdu'd, his glories cease.
Ask'st thou, who finish'd here his course
With so much honour?-'Twas a horse.

Anonymous.

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