And, as on bodies shadows do attend,
Sith all our bliss is follow'd with annoy?
She is not dead, she lives where she did love,
Her memory on earth, her soul above.
ARETINUS'S EPITAPH.-CLXXI.
HERE Aretine lies, most bitter gall,
Who whilst he liv'd spoke evil of all;
Only of God the arrant Scot
Nought said, but that he knew him not.
JOHN, EARL OF LAUDERDALE.
Of those rare worthies who adorn'd our North,
And shone like constellations, thou alone
Remainedst last, great Maitland! charg'd with worth
Second in Virtue's theatre to none.
But finding all eccentric in our times,
Religion into superstition turn'd,
Justice silenc'd, exiled, or in-urn'd;
Truth, Faith, and Charity, reputed crimes;
The young men destinate by sword to fall,
And trophies of their country's spoils to rear;
Strange laws the ag'd and prudent to appal,
And forc'd sad yokes of tyranny to bear;
And for no great nor virtuous minds a room— Disdaining life, thou shouldst into thy tomb.
WHEN misdevotion every where shall take place,
And lofty orators, in thund'ring terms,
Shall move you, people, to arise in arms,
And churches' hallow'd policy deface;
When you shall but one general sepulchre
(As Averroes did one general soul)
On high, on low, on good, on bad confer,
And your dull predecessors' rites controul—
Ah! spare this monument, great guests! it keeps
Three great Justiciars, whom true worth did raise;
The Muses' darlings, whose loss Phoebus weeps ;
Best men's delight, the glory of their days.
More we would say, but fear, and stand in awe
To turn idolaters, and break your law.
Do not repine, bless'd soul, that humble wits
Do make thy worth the matter of their verse:
No high-strain'd muse our times and sorrows fits;
And we do sigh, not sing, to crown thy hearse.
The wisest prince e'er manag'd Britain's state
Did not disdain, in numbers clear and brave,
The virtues of thy sire to celebrate,
And fix a rich memorial on his grave.
Thou didst deserve no less; and here in jet,
Gold, touch, brass, porphyry, or Parian stone,
That by a prince's hand no lines are set
For thee-the cause is, now this land hath none.
Such giant moods our parity forth brings,
We all will nothing be, or all be kings.
AITHEN, thy pearly coronet let fall;
Clad in sad robes, upon thy temples set
The weeping cypress, or the sable jet.
Mourn this thy nurseling's loss, a loss which all
Apollo's choir bemoans, which many years
Cannot repair, nor influence of spheres.
Ah! when shalt thou find shepherd like to him,
Who made thy banks more famous by his worth,
Than all those gems thy rocks and streams send forth?
His splendour others glow-worm light did dim:
Sprung of an ancient and a virtuous race,
He virtue more than many did embrace.
He fram'd to mildness thy half-barbarous swains; The good man's refuge, of the bad the fright, Unparallel'd in friendship, world's delight!
For hospitality along thy plains
Far-fam'd a patron; and a pattern fair
Of piety; the Muses' chief repair;
Most debonnaire, in courtesy supreme;
Lov'd of the mean, and honour'd by the great;
Ne'er dash'd by Fortune, nor cast down by Fate;
To present and to after times a theme.
Aithen, thy tears pour on this silent grave,
And drop them in thy alabaster cave,
And Niobe's imagery here become;
And, when thou hast distilled here a tomb,
Enchase in it thy pearls, and let it bear,
"Aithen's best gem and honour shrin'd lies here."
Write in thy scroll that I,
Of wisdom lover, and sweet poesy,
Was cropped in my prime;
And ripe in worth, though green in years, did die.
JUSTICE, Truth, Peace, and Hospitality,
Friendship, and Love, being resolv'd to die,
In these lewd times, have chosen here to have
With just, true, pious * * * their grave;
Them cherish'd he so much, so much did grace,
That they on earth would chuse none other place.
WHEN Death, to deck his trophies, stopt thy breath,
Rare ornament and glory of these parts!
All with moist eyes might say, and ruthful hearts,
That things immortal vassal'd were to death.
What good in parts on many shar'd we see,
From Nature, gracious Heaven, or Fortune flow;
To make a master-piece of worth below,
Heaven, Nature, Fortune gave in gross to thee.
In honour, bounty, rich-in valour, wit,
In courtesy; born of an ancient race;
With bays in war, with olives crown'd in peace;
Match'd great with offspring for great actions fit.
No rust of times, nor change, thy virtue wan
With times to change; when truth, faith, love, decay'd,
In this new age, like Fate thou fixed staid,
Of the first world an all-substantial man.
As erst this kingdom given was to thy sire,
The prince his daughter trusted to thy care,
And well the credit of a gem so rare
Thy loyalty and merit did require.
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