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Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such,
We scarcely can praise it or blame it too much ;
Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind,
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind :
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat,
To persuade Tommy Townshend * to lend him a vote;
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,
And thought of convincing, while they thought of

dining: t
Though equal to all things, for all things unfit;
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit;
For a patriot, too cool ; for a drudge disobedient;
And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient.
In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd or in place, sir,
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.

Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint,
While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in't:
The pupil of impulse, it forced him along,
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong;
Still aiming at honor, yet fearing to roam,
The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home.
Would

you

ask for his merits ? alas ! he had none; What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own.

* Mr. T. Townshend, member for Whitchurch, afterwards Lord Sydney.

† Mr. Burke's speeches in Parliament, though distinguished by all the force of reasoning and eloquence of their highly-gifted author, were not always listened to with patience by his brother members, who not unfrequently took the opportunity of retiring to dinner when he rose to speak. To this circumstance, which procured for the orator the sobriquet of the Dinner Bell, allusion 18 bere made.

Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at;
Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet !
What spirits were his ! what wit and what whim!
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb! *
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball !
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all!
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,
That we wish'd him full ten times a-day at Old Nick.
But missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
As often we wish'd to have Dick back again.

Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;
A flattering painter, who made it his care
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are.
His gallants are all faultless, his women divine,
And Comedy wonders at being so fine;
Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out,
Or rather like Tragedy giving a rout.
His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd
Of virtues and feelings, that Folly grows proud ;
And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone,
Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own.
Say, where has our poet this malady caught,
Or wherefore his characters thus without fault?
Say, was it, that vainly directing his view
To find out men's virtues, and finding them few,
Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf,

* Mr. Richard Burke having slightly fractured an arm and a leg at different times, the Doctor has rallied him on these acci. dents, as a kind of retributive justice, for breaking jests upon other people.

He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself?

Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax,
The scourge of impostors, the terror of quarks:
Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines,
Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines:
When satire and censure encircled his throne,
I fear’d for your safety, I fear'd for my own;
But now he is gone, and we want a detector,
Our Dodds * shall be pious, our Kenricks † shall lecture;
Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style;
Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile :
New Lauders § and Bowers || the Tweed shall cross over,
No countryman living their tricks to discover;
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark,
And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark.

Here lies David Garrick, describe him who can,

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* The Rev. Dr. Dodd, who was executed for forgery.

† Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, under the title of “The School of Shakspeare.' He was a well-known writer, of prodigious versatility, and some talent. Dr. Johnson observed of him, ' Ile is one of the many who have made themselves public, withont making themselves known.'

I James Macpherson, Esq., who from the mere force of his style, wrote down the first poet of all antiquity.

$ William Lauter, who, by interpolating certain passages from the Adamus Exul of Grotius, with translations from Paradise Lost, endeavored to fix on Milton a charge of plagiarism from the modern Latin poets. Dr. Douglas detected and exposed this imposture, and extorted from the author a confession and apology.

|| Archibald Bower, a Scottish Jesuit, and author of a History of the Popes from St. Peter to Lambertini. Dr. Douglas convicted Bower of gross imposture, and totally destroyed the credit of his history.

An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man;
As an actor, confess'd without rival to shine,
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line:
Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart
The man had his failings, a dupe to his art.
Like an ill-judging beauty, his colors he spread,
And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red.
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting ;
'Twas only that when he was off he was acting.
With no reason on earth to go out of his way,
He turn'd and he varied full ten times a day:
Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick
If they were not his own by finessing and trick :
He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack,
For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them buck.
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came,
And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame;
Till his relish, grown callous almost to disease,
Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please.
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind,
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind.
Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys,* and Woodfalls † so grave,
What a commerce was yours, while you got and you

gave!
Ilow did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you raised,
While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were be-praised !
But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies,
To act as an angel and mix with the skies:

* Mr. Hugh Kelley, originally a staymaker, afterwards a news. paper editor and dramatist, and latterly a barrister.

† Mr. William Woodfall, printer of the Morniny Chronicle.

Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill,
Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will;
Old Shakspeare receive him with praise and with love,
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kelleys above.

Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt, pleasant creature,
And slander itself must allow him good nature;
He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper ;
Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper.
Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser?
I answer, No, no, for he always was wiser.
Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat ?
His very worst foe can't accuse him of that.
Perhaps he confided in men as they go,
And so was too foolishly honest ? Ah, no!
Then what was his failing ? come tell it, and burn ye:
He was, could he help it? a special attorney.

Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind,
He has not left a wiser or better behind;
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand,
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland :
Still born to improve us in every part,
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart.
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,
When they judged without skill, he was still hard of

hearing:
When they talked of their Raphaels, Corregios, and

stuff, He shifted his trumpet,* and only took snuff.

* Sir Joshua Reynolds was so deaf as to be under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company.

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