Classic Poem

UPON YOUNG MR. ROGERS OF GLOUCESTERSHIRE

O F gentle blood, his parents' only treasure,
Their lasting sorrow, and their vanish'd pleasure,
Adorn'd with features, virtues, wit, and grace,
A large provision for so short a race;
More mod'rate gifts might have prolong'd his date,
Too early fitted for a better state;
But, knowing heav'n his home, to shun delay,
He leap'd o'er age, and took the shortest way.

EPITAPH ON THE MONUMENT OF THE MARQUIS OF WINCHESTER

H E who in impious times untainted stood,
And midst rebellion durst be just and good;
Whose arms asserted, and whose sufferings more
Confirm'd the cause for which he fought before,
Rests here, rewarded by an heav'nly prince,
For what his earthly could not recompense.
Pray, reader, that such times no more appear;
Or, if they happen, learn true honor here.

Ark of thy age's faith and loyalty,
Which, to preserve them, Heav'n confin'd in thee,
Few subjects could a king like thine deserve;
And fewer, such a king so well could serve.
Blest king, blest subject, whose exalted state
By suff'rings rose, and gave the law to fate.
Such souls are rare, but mighty patterns given
To earth, were meant for ornaments to heaven.

EPITAPH ON MRS. MARGARET PASTON

OF BARNINGHAM IN NORFOLK

S O fair, so young, so innocent, so sweet,
So ripe a judgment, and so rare a wit,
Require at least an age in one to meet.
In her they met; but long they could not stay,
'T was gold too fine to fix without allay.
Heav'n's image was in her so well express'd,
Her very sight upbraided all the rest;
Too justly ravish'd from an age like this,
Now she is gone, the world is of a piece.

AN EPITAPH ON SIR PALMES FAIRBORNE'S TOMB IN
WESTMINSTER ABBEY

Y E sacred relics, which your marble keep,
Here, undisturb'd by wars, in quiet sleep:
Discharge the trust, which, when it was below,
Fairborne's undaunted soul did undergo,
And be the town's Palladium from the foe.
Alive and dead these walls he will defend;
Great actions great examples must attend.
The Candian siege his early valor knew,
Where Turkish blood did his young hands imbrue.
From thence returning with deserv'd applause,
Against the Moors his well-flesh'd sword he draws;
The same the courage, and the same the cause.
His youth and age, his life and death combine,
As in some great and regular design,
All of a piece throughout, and all divine.
Still nearer heaven his virtue shone more bright,
Like rising flames expanding in their height;
The martyr's glory crown'd the soldier's fight.
More bravely British general never fell,
Nor general's death was e'er reveng'd so well;
Which his pleas'd eyes beheld before their close
Follow'd by thousand victims of his foes.

To his lamented loss for times to come
His pious widow consecrates this tomb.