Chiswick, Middlesex.

ON WILLIAM HOGARTH, Esq.

Farewell, great painter of mankind,
Who reach'd the noblest point of art,
Whose pictur'd morals charm the mind,
And through the eye correct the heart.

If genius fire thee, reader, stay :
If nature touch thee, drop a tear;
If neither move thee, turn away;
For Hogarth's honour'd dust lies here.

ON DR. GOLDSMITH.

Here lies the but of all his betters;
The riddle of the world of letters;
A man of sense of no discerning;
A scholar of no greater learning:
A bard, whose genius soar'd sublime
A whole half-year to tag a rhime;
Made roar box, gallery, and pit,
Without one grain of mother-wit;
A man of science so profound,
He'd prove a square to be a round;
Would talk of animated nature,
As if himself had been creator:

Of animation though bereft,

His right hand oft forgot his left;

A mere good natur'd man through meekness,
His moral virtue, natural weakness:
A medicast, whose matchless skill

In working cures was sure to kill;

By his own art who justly died,

A blundering, artless suicide:

Share, earth-worms, share, since now he's dead, His megrim, maggot-bitten head.

Another.

Adieu, sweet bard! to each fine feeling true,

Thy virtues many, and thy foibles few

Those form'd to charm e'en vicious minds,-and

these

With harmless mirth the social soul to please.
Another's woe thy heart could always melt;
None gave more free,-for none more deeply felt.
Sweet bard, adieu! thy own harmonious lays
Have sculptur'd out thy monument of praise:
Yes, these survive to time's remotest day;
While drops the bust, and boastful tombs decay,
Reader, if number'd in the muse's train,
Go, tune the lyre, and imitate his strain;
But, if no poet thou, reverse the plan,
Depart in peace, and imitate the man,
H

Westminster Abbey,

Between Gay's monument and the Duke of Argyle's is
Goldsmith's with an Inscription in Latin by Dr.
Johnson of which the following is a Translation.
This Monument is raised
To the memory of

OLIVER GOLDSMITH,

Poet, Natural Philosopher and Historian,
Who left no species of writing untouched,

or,

Unadorned by his pen,

Whether to move laughter,
Or draw tears:

He was a powerful master

over the affections,

Though at the same time a gentle tyrant;
Of a genius at once sublime, lively, and
equal to every subject:

In expression at once noble,
Pure and delicate.

His memory will last

As long as society retains affection;
Friendship is not void of honour,
And Reading wants not her admirers.
He was born in the kingdom of Ireland,
At Fernes, in the province
of Leinster,

Where Pallas had set her name,

29th Nov. 1731.

He was educated at Dublin,
And died in London,
4th April, 1774.

Previous to the publication of Goldsmith's Deserted Village, the bookseller had given him a note for one hundred guineas for the copy, which the Doctor mentioned, a few hours after, to one of his friends, who observed it was a very great sum for so short a performance, "In truth," replied Goldsmith, “I think so too; it is much more than the honest man can afford, or the piece is worth; I have not been easy since I received it; I will therefore go back and return him his note :" which he actually did, and left it entirely to the bookseller to pay him according to the profits produced by the sale of the poem, which turned out very considerable.

On a Scold.

How apt are men to lye! how dare they say,
When life is gone, all learning fleets away ?
Since this glad grave holds Chloe fair and young,
Who where she is, first learnt to hold her tongue.

ON MR. EDMUND PURDON,

An Author.

Here lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,
Who long was a bookseller's hack,

He led such a d -e life in this world,

I don't think he'll ever come back,

ON HENRY FIELDING, Esa.

The master of the Greek and Roman page,
The lively scorner of a venal age,

Who made the public laugh at public vice,
Or drew from sparkling eyes the pearl of price;
Student of nature, reader of mankind,

In whom the poet and the patron join’d.
As free to give applauses, as assert,
And skilful in the practice of desert:

Hence power consign'd the laws to thy command,
And put the scales of justice in thine hand,
To stand protector of the orphan race,

And find the female penitent a place.

From toils like these, too much for eye to bear,
From pain from sickness, and a world of care;
From children and a widow-in her bloom,
From shores remote, and from a foreign tomb,
Call'd by the word of life, thou shalt appear,
To please and profit in a higher sphere;
Where endless hope, unperishable gain,
Are what the scriptu es teach and entertain.

Weston Church-Yard, Cheshire.

On a Parish Clerk.

Here lies entomb'd within this vault so dark,
A taylor, cloth-drawer, soldier, and a clerk.
Death snatch'd him hence, and also from him took
His needle, thimble, sword, and prayer book;