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ON THE DEATH OF

MR. ROBERT LEVETT,

A PRACTISER IN PHYSIC.

CONDEMN'D to hope's delusive mine,

As on we toil from day to day,
By sudden blasts, or slow decline,
Our social comforts drop away.

Well try'd through many a varying year,
See Levett to the grave descend,

Officious, innocent, sincere,

Of ev'ry friendless name the friend.

Yet still he fills affection's eye,
Obscurely wise and coarsely kind;
Nor letter'd arrogance deny
Thy praise to merit unrefin'd.

When fainting nature call'd for aid,
And hov'ring death prepar'd the blow,
His vigorous remedy display'd

The power of art without the show.

In mis❜ry's darkest cavern known,
His useful care was ever nigh,

Where hopeless anguish pour'd his groan,
And lonely want retir'd to die.

No summons mock'd by chill delay,
No petty gain disdain'd by pride;
The modest wants of ev'ry day
The toil of every day supply'd.

His virtues walk'd their narrow round,
Nor made a pause, nor left a void;
And sure the Eternal Master found
The single talent well employ'd,

The busy day-the peaceful night,
Unfelt, unclouded, glided by;

His frame was firm-his powers were bright,
Though now his eightieth year was nigh.

Then with no fiery throbbing pain,
No cold gradations of decay,

Death broke at once the vital chain,
And freed his soul the nearest way,

EPITAPH

ON CLAUDE PHILLIPS,

An Itinerant Musician.

PHILLIPS! whose touch harmonious could remove The pangs of guilty pow'r and hapless love, Rest here, distrest by poverty no more, Find here that calm thou gav'st so oft before; Sleep undisturb'd within this peaceful shrine, Till angels wake thee with a note like thine.

EPITAPH

ON SIR THOMAS HANMER, BART.

THOU who survey'st these walls with curious eye, Pause at this tomb where Hanmer's ashes lie; His various worth through varied life attend, And learn his virtues while thou mourn'st his end. His force of genius burn'd in early youth, With thirst of knowledge, and with love of truth; His learning, join'd with each endearing art, Charm'd ev'ry ear, and gain'd on ev'ry heart. Thus early wise, th' endanger'd realm to aid, His country call'd him from the studious shade;

In life's first bloom his public toils began,
At once commenc'd the senator and man.

In business dext'rous, weighty in debate, Thrice ten long years he labour'd for the state; In every speech persuasive wisdom flow'd, In every act refulgent virtue glow'd: Suspended faction ceas'd from rage and strife, To hear his eloquence, and praise his life. Resistless merit fix'd the senate's choice, Who hail'd him Speaker with united voice. Illustrious age! how bright thy glories shone, While Hanmer fill'd the chair-and Anne the throne! Then when dark arts obscur'd each fierce debate, When mutual frauds perplex'd the maze of state, The moderator firmly mild appear'd— Beheld with love, with veneration heard.

This task perform'd-he sought no gainful post, Nor wish'd to glitter at his country's cost; Strict on the right he fix'd his stedfast eye, With temperate zeal and wise anxiety; Nor e'er from virtue's paths was lur'd aside, To pluck the flow'rs of pleasure, or of pride, Her gifts despis'd, corruption blush'd and fled, And fame pursu'd him where conviction led.

Age call'd, at length, his active mind to rest, With honour sated, and with cares opprest:

To letter'd ease retir'd and honest mirth,
To rural grandeur and domestic worth:
Delighted still to please mankind or mend,
The patriot's fire yet sparkled in the friend.
Calm conscience then, his former life survey'd,
And recollected toils endear'd the shade,
Till nature call'd him to her general doom,
And virtue's sorrow dignified his tomb.

ON THE DEATH OF

STEPHEN GREY, F. R. S.

THE ELECTRICIAN.

LONG hast thou borne the burden of the day, Thy task is ended, venerable Grey !

No more shall art thy dextrous hand require,
To break the sleep of elemental fire:

To rouse the power that actuates nature's frame,
The monientaneous shock, th' electric flame;
The flame which first, weak pupil to thy lore,
I saw, condemn'd alas to see no more.

Now, hoary sage, pursue thy happy flight
With swifter motion, haste to purer light,
Where Bacon waits, with Newton and with Boyle,
To hail thy genius and applaud thy toil,

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