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XIII.

On Dr. FRANCIS ATTERBURY,

Bishop of Rochester,

Who died in Exile at Paris, 1732. [His only Daughter having expired in his arms, imme

diately after she arrived in France to see him.]

DIALOGUE.

SH E

Y
ES, we have liv’d—one pang, and then we part!

May Heav'n, dear Father! now have all thy Heart.
Yet ah ! how once we lov’d, remember still,
Till you are dust like me.

H E

Dear Shade! I will :
Then mix this duft with thine-O spotless Ghoft!
O more than Fortune, Friends, or Country loft!
Is there on Earth one care, one wish beside
Yes--SAVE MY COUNTRY, HEAV'N*,

-He said, and dy'd.

• Alluding to the Bishop's frequent use and application of the expiring words of the famous Fatber PAUL, in his prayer for the state, ESTO PRR PETUA. With how good a grace the Bishop applied it at his trial, and is here made to refer to it in his last moments, they will understand who know what conformity there was in the lives of the Prelate and the Monk. The character of our countryman is well known. And that of the Father may be told in very few words. He was profoundly skilled in all divine and human learning : He employed his whole life in the service of the State, against the unjust incroachments of the Cburcb. He was modest, humble, and forgiving, candid, patient, and just; free from all prejudices of party, and all the projects of ambition ; in a word, the bappiest compound of Science, Wis. dom, and Virtue,

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On

XIV.

On EDMUND, Duke of BUCKINGHAM, Who died in the Nineteenth Year of his Age, 1735.

IF
F modeft Youth, with cool Reflection crown'd,

And ev'ry op’ning Virtue blooming round,
Could save a Parent's juftest Pride from fate,
Or add one Patriot to a sinking state ;
This weeping marble had not ask'd thy Tear,
Or sadly told, how many hopes lie here !
The living Virtue now had shone approv'd,
The Senate heard him, and his Country lov’d.
Yet softer Honours, and less noisy Fame
Attend the shade of gentle BUCKINGHAM:
In whom a Race, for Courage fam'd and Art,
Ends in the milder Merit of the Heart;
And Chiefs or Sages long to Britain giv’n,
Pays the last Tribute of a Saint to Heav'n.

XV.

For One who would not be buried in Westminster

Abbey.

HEROES and Kings ! your distance keep;

In peace let one poor Poet sleep, Who never flatter'd Folks like you: Let Horace blush, and Virgil too,

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Another, on the same.

UNDER this Marble, or under this Sill,

Or under this Turf, or e’en what they will ;
Whatever an Heir, or a Friend in his stead,
Or any good creature shall lay o'er my head,
Lies one who ne'er car'd, and still cares not a pin
What they said, or may say of the Mortal within :
But who, living and dying, serene still and free,
Trusts in God, that as well as he was, he shall be,

MEMOIRS

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