Weep not, beloved Friends! nor let the air For me with sighs be troubled. Not from life Have I been taken; this is genuine life And this alone, the life which now I live...
O thou who movest onward with a mind Intent upon thy way, pause, though in haste! 'Twill be no fruitless moment. I was born Within Savona's walls, of gentle blood. On Tiber's banks my youth was dedicate...
Destined to war from very infancy Was I, Roberto Dati, and I took In Malta the white symbol of the Cross: Nor in life's vigorous season did I shun Hazard or toil; among the sands was seen...
Not without heavy grief of heart did He On whom the duty fell (for at that time The father sojourned in a distant land) Deposit in the hollow of this tomb A brother's Child, most tenderly beloved!...
Epitaph To The Memory Of A Worthy Man, The Rev. Mr. Sleep, Curate Of Kingswear Church, Devon, Whose Devotional Elocution Was Remarkably Impregnated With Soporific Qualities.
Kneller, by Heaven, and not a master, taught, Whose art was Nature, and whose pictures Thought; Now for two ages having snatch'd from Fate Whate'er was beauteous, or whate'er was great,...
Thy relics, Rowe, to this fair urn we trust, And sacred place by Dryden's awful dust: Beneath a rude and nameless stone he lies, To which thy tomb shall guide inquiring eyes....
Here rests a woman, good without pretence, Blest with plain reason, and with sober sense: No conquests she, but o'er herself, desired, No arts essay'd, but not to be admired....
Of manners gentle, of affections mild; In wit, a man; simplicity, a child: With native humour tempering virtuous rage, Form'd to delight at once and lash the age: Above temptation in a low estate,...
If modest youth, with cool reflection crown'd, And every opening virtue blooming round, Could save a parent's justest pride from fate, Or add one patriot to a sinking state;...
A dash of yellow sand, Wind-scattered and sun-tanned; Some waves that curl and cream along the margin of the strand; And, creeping close to these Long shores that lounge at ease,...
Said the Poet, I wouldn't maintain, As the mystical German has done, That the land, inexistent till then, To reward him then first saw the sun; And yet I could deem it was so,...
Early within his workshop here, On Sundays stands our master dear; His dirty apron he puts away, And wears a cleanly doublet to-day; Lets wax'd thread, hammer, and pincers rest,...
The playful smiles around the dimpled mouth, That happy air of majesty and truth, So would I draw: but, oh! 'tis vain to try, My narrow genius does the power deny; The equal lustre of the heavenly mind,...
Yet, even here, tho' Fiction rules the hour, There shine some genuine smiles, beyond her power; And there are tears, too--tears that Memory sheds Even o'er the feast that mimic fancy spreads,...