He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack,
For he knew when he pleas'd he could whistle them

back.

Of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed what came,
And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame;
'Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease,
Who pepper'd the highest, was surest to please.
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind,
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind.
Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls, so grave,
What a commerce was yours, while you got and you

gave!

How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you rais'd,

While he was be-roscius'd, and you were be-prais'd! But peace to his spirit, where-ever it flies,

To act as an angel, and mix with the skies;

Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill
Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will;
Old Shakespeare received him with praise and with love,
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.

Here old John Randal lies, who telling of his tale, Liv'd three-score years and ten, such virtue was in ale. Ale was his meat, ale was his drink, ale did his heart revive;

And if he could have drank his ale, he still had been alive

On a profligate Mathematician at Manchester.

Here lies John Hill,

A man of skill,

His age was five times ten:

He ne'er did good,

Nor ever would,

Had he liv'd as long again.

WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

Sacred to the memory of

Sir GODFREY KNELLER,

Knight of the Roman Empire, and a Baronet of

England;

Painter to the Kings

Charles 2d, James 2d, William 3d, Queen Ann, And

King George the first,

He died October 26, 1723, aged 77.

Kneller, by heav'n, and not a master taught,
Whose art was nature, and whose pictures thought;
Now for two ages having snatch'd from fate
Whate'er was beauteous, or whate'er was great;
Rests crown'd with princes honours, poets lays,
Due to his merit, and brave thirst of praise;
Living, great nature fear'd he might outvie
Her works; and dying, fears herself may die.

Ten sovereigns sat to Sir Godfrey Kneller; not one of them discovered that he was fit for more than preserving their likeness. These were Charles II. James I. and his queen; William and Mary, Anne, George I. Louis XIV. Peter the Great, and the emperor Charles VI. For the last portrait Leopold created Kneller knight of the Roman empire-by Anne he was made a gentleman of the privy-chamber, and by the University of Oxford a doctor. When he had finished the picture of Louis XIV, that prince asked him what mark of his esteem would be most agreeable to him? he answered modestly and genteely, that if his majesty would bestow a quarter of an hour on him, that he might make a drawing of his head for himself, he should think it the highest honour he could pos sibly receive. The king complied, and the painter drew him on grey paper with black and red chalk heightened with white.

ON SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.

Here Reynolds is laid; and to tell you my mind,
He has not left a wiser or better behind :
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland,
Still born to inform us in every part;

His pencil our faces, his manners our heart:
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,
Where they judg'd without skill, he was still hard of
hearing;

When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios, and

stuff,

He shifted his trumpet*, and only took snuff.

* Sir Joshua was so remarkably déaf, as to be under the ne cessity of using an ear-trumpet in company.

ÓN ELIZA JONES,

Wife of the Rev. John Jones, by Anne Seward,

O! pure of spirit, that hast soar'd away
To thy congenial realms of cloudless day,
Eliza, angel! thou wilt hover near;

And teach his soul thy wounding loss to bear,
Who sorrowing saw thy cypress garland wove
Ere time had dimm'd one hue of life or love.
Then o'er the darkness gather'd round his head
Thy care the light of pious hope will shed;
That shews the harbour bright religion forms
For the heart wreck'd by griefs' o'erwhelming storms.
So shall that heart, from hopeless anguish free,
Teach thy lov'd children to resemble thee;
And when, in future years they pious turn
The moisten'd eye of duty on this urn,
Here shall its consecrated tablet prove

Their mother's virtue, and their father's love.

In the Cloisters 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,
The warmest Patriot, the worthiest man :
He exercised virtue in this age,

Sufficient to have distinguished him even in the best.
Sagacious by nature,

Industrious by habit,

Inquisitive with art,

He gained a complete knowledge of the state of

Britain,

Foreign and domestic,

In most the backward fruits of tedious experience, In him the early acquisition of undissipated youth, He served the court several years:

Abroad, in the auspicious reign of Queen Anne, At home, in the reign of that excellent prince George I.

He served his country always;

At court independant,

In the senate unbiassed:

At every age and in every station,
This was the bent of his generous soul,
This was the business of his laborious life.