University of Virginia Library

Epitaphs for a MISER.

I.

[Others press forward haply Heaven to find]

Others press forward haply Heaven to find,
Alas! the miser leaves his Heaven behind.

II.

[Reader, survey this monumental pile]

Reader, survey this monumental pile,
Nor drop a tear of pity all the while.
It rose, enjoin'd by will, at mighty cost,
For dead, by it, the Miser nothing lost.
He died, a victim at the shrine of pelf,
Because, alive, he never lov'd himself.
He died, like him, Fate ne'er could debt forgive,
He died, because he knew not how to live.

III.

[This letter'd stone, to mortals kind, conceals]

This letter'd stone, to mortals kind, conceals
A wretch, who from himself no longer steals.
Death, in mere spite, for Death despises pelf,
Stole the astonish'd miser from himself.
Himself his friends still in embraces hold,
For (strange) his soul's materializ'd to gold.
Hence, as just Heaven to souls precedence gives,
Though coffin'd here, his nobler half still lives.
Death but destroys the body, not himself,
Mankind do more, destroy his soul, his pelf.
Thus we the stale philosophy renew,
That souls are mortal, and material too.

IV.

[A Miser died; some gen'rous friend]

A Miser died; some gen'rous friend
Grac'd with a tomb his latter end,
And wrote, “Beneath lies Nathan Drew,
“Who kindly left me—this to do.”
His heir, one day in passing by,
This short inscription chanc'd to spy,
And, glancing o'er it with surprise,
Exclaim'd, “How much the marble lies!”
Shaking his purse (with transport too)
“Here, here! (quoth he) lies Nathan Drew.”

V.

[Here rests, beneath this grassy-border'd stone]

Here rests, beneath this grassy-border'd stone,
A miser, who made man's chief good his own.
Hail marble! thus indulg'd with endless fame,
Forgotten else with some faint's half-spelt name;
That else had made the Text some Poet's own,
When, asking bread, he had receiv'd a stone.

VI.

[A Miser justly claims these lines ingrav'd]

A Miser justly claims these lines ingrav'd,
Thus from oblivion, not damnation, sav'd;
For He who, by no precepts overaw'd,
Worships an idol, for the one true God;
He too, Lucretius beck'ning from his shelf,
Who with remorseless poniard stabs himself;
By Heaven detested, and despis'd by men,
May plead forgiveness, if a miser can.

VII.

[Shrouded beneath this venerable stone]

Shrouded beneath this venerable stone,
Each day he liv'd more self-denied still grown;
Scorning the ease and luxury of pelf,
A martyr lies—a martyr to himself.

VIII.

[This monument, which bears no vulgar name]

This monument, which bears no vulgar name,
A noted Miser consecrates to fame.
Ye patriot band of old! ye glorious few,
How often prais'd! now imitated too!
Who still, with freedom nothing could conceal,
Preferr'd the general to the private weal!
Give place—nor your deserts misunderstood,
The Miser died, died for the public good.
Hail benefactor of the humankind!
What blessings thy decease confers behind!
For which, through life, each evil was endur'd,
And which by death's effectually secur'd.

IX.

[A Miser rots below this mould'ring stone]

A Miser rots below this mould'ring stone,
Who starv'd himself, through spleen, to skin and bone,
Lest worms might riot on his flesh at last,
And boast, what he ne'er could, a full repast.
Such still was his propensity to save,
Not man alone, he would defraud the grave.
But O! could reptiles here in triumph laugh!
On earth's devour'd the Miser's better half.

X. Epitaph on Mr ADDISON.

Under this kind protecting yew
A critic lies, and poet too,
That is, the rest to Heav'n remov'd,
So much of each as mortal prov'd.
He, oft as exercis'd his pen,
Gave immortality to men.
But Death could ne'er his pen forgive,
To scorn his pow'r, and make men live.
Yet, though unbrandish'd in his hand,
It vibrates still at Time's command.
Friends Addison and Time thus close,
But Death and He relentless foes.
Victor and vanquish'd in one breath,
Death conquers Him, he conquers Death.
Though gone himself, Time ever kind,
His great avenger's left behind,
Whose dart, mankind amends to make,
Will Death himself at length o'ertake.

XI. Epitaph for Mr THOMSON's Monument.

Could statues speak, no couplet were requir'd,
How poets liv'd by all mankind admir'd;
But speech deny'd, the letter-titled stone
Must tell of Thomson, what to all is known,
“With Attic fire that Scotia saw him burn,
“His cradle there, in Anglia claim'd his urn.”
Others to marble may their glory owe,
And boast those honours sculpture can bestow;
Short-liv'd renown, that every moment must
Sink with its emblem, and consume to dust;
But Thomson needs no artist to ingrave,
From dumb oblivion no device to save;
Such vulgar aids let names inferiour ask,
Nature for him assumes herself the task;
The Seasons are his monuments of fame,
With them to flourish, as from them it came.

XII. Epitaph on Sir ---

Calm sleeps the mortal part below
Of one who never had a foe;
A Christian form'd on Reason's plan,
A modest saint, an honest man.
Whose hands a sceptre might have sway'd,
Had Charity not been their trade;
Whom robes imperial might have grac'd,
Had Folly thought them not well plac'd;
His brow with gems had been adorn'd,
But Virtue still the baubles scorn'd.
To Heav'n be songs of praise begun,
For what it gracious has not done.
He dy'd, O reader, so may you,
For he had nothing else to do.

XIII. Epitaph on Dr ---

Here—claims the grateful look,
Whom Death as his best friend mistook,
And therefore suffer'd him to live,
Till age itself the stroke did give.
Death was beguil'd, since, fond of brothers,
He deem'd this doctor just like others.
Yet, tyrant, boast; for, poor in pelf,
He, saving others, fell himself.
Ah! who a recompense can give?
Though dead, by him a thousand live.

XIV. Epitaph on FANNY ROVER.

This tomb-stone covers Fanny Rover,
Who often read her pray'r-book over,
Yet never thought, till Death stood by,
Alas! alas! that she must die.
“O save me,” says the clay-pale maid,
“Saving,” cries Death, “was ne'er my trade.
“Well I believe it,” said the other,
“But kindly leave me for another;
“O turn your pointed dart away!
“O give me but a single day!
“Will it diminish aught your pow'r,
“To grant the favour of one hour?
“Only a moment's respite give,
“I'll then, though old, begin to live.”
“Life rather should commence at death,”
He stern reply'd, and stopt her breath.
Virgins, be wise from Fanny Rover,
Act not her life, but death-bed over.

XV. Epitaph on LUCY HAY.

Here lies a senseless lump of clay,
That once envelop'd Lucy Hay,
Next with the sun-beam, and the show'r,
To animate some gentle flow'r;
An emblem, not beyond the truth,
Of Lucy's blooming charms and youth,
Each Season shall see Lucy rise,
And all admire her—but the skies;
For there a welcome spirit gone,
Far other likeness she puts on.
To one life Death the stroke did give,
But Lucy thus shall doubly live.

XVI. Epitaph on a SLANDERER.

Here moulders one, not worth a sob,
Who all mankind was wont to rob,
Not of their watches, or their purses,
But of their characters, which worse is.
The good he hated (wretched elf)
Because the good unlike himself;
The good, still bound by Candour's laws,
But pity'd him, for the same cause.
Kind Death! to bid his tongue be still,
Commanding, “thou no more shalt kill;”
The slayer I myself have slain,
Never to lie but once again,
“When to his Saviour he shall kneel,
“When saw I thee misfortunes feel,
“In prison, naked, or in want,
“Nor comfort, food, and raiment grant?
“As these ne'er such receiv'd from thee,
“Mortal, such ne'er were offer'd me.”

XVII. Epitaph on an unhappy young Man.

Refrain, officious reader, to inquire
What virtues once did the deceas'd inspire?
What splendid titles his descent adorn?
What station held he? of what parents born?
Consign'd to dust, nought it avails thee, now,
To be instructed, whither, whence, or how,
He came—he liv'd—is gone—these to conceal,
Kind Death o'er all has spread his friendly veil.
Your curious search let this inscription bound,
On monumental marbles seldom found,
For seldom Truth the scuptor's chissel tries,
A hapless youth here in oblivion lies,
Who sinn'd—so have the worthiest and the best,
His God and Saviour only know the rest.
Whether, O reader, more desert thy share,
And fewer faults, thy tomb-stone will declare.

XVIII. Epitaph on a BEGGAR.

Some of their ancestors talk loud,
Of ancient blood absurdly proud;
But I can call, nor make a pother,
Adam my sire, and Eve my mother.
Some fam'lies up a cent'ry run,
But mine commenc'd when time begun.
Beggars are then as good as others,
Monarchs and peers themselves but—brothers.

XIX. My own Epitaph.

Let the false marble tell no pompous lie,
In admonition hush'd the flatt'ring strain;
“Rightly to live, is learning how to die;
“And dying well, is but to live again.”