Of this epitaph, short as it is, the faults seem not to be very few. Why part should be Latin, and part English, it is not easy to discover. In the Latin the opposition of Immortalis and Mortalis, is a mere sound, or a mere quibble; he is not immortal in any sense contrary to that in which he is mortal.
In the verses the thought is obvious, and the words night and light are too nearly allied.
EDMUND DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM,
WHO DIED IN THE 19TH YEAR OF HIS AGE,
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;
This weeping marble had not ask'd thy tear,
Or sadly told how many hopes lie here!
The living virtue now had shone approved,
The senate heard him, and his country loved.
Yet softer honours, and less noisy fame,
Attend the shade of gentle Buckingham :
In whom a race, for courage famed and art,
Ends in the milder merit of the heart :
And, chiefs or sages long to Britain given,
Pays the last tribute of a saint to Heaven.
This epitaph Mr. Warburton prefers to the rest; but I know not for what reason. To crown with reflection is surely a mode of speech approaching to nonsense. Opening virtues blooming round, is something like tautology; the six following lines are poor and prosaic. Art is in another couplet used for arts, that a rhyme may be had to heart. The six last lines are the best, but not excellent.
The rest of his sepulchral performances hardly deserve the notice of criticism. The contemptible
'Dialogue' between HE and SHE should have been suppressed for the author's sake.
In his last epitaph on himself, in which he attempts to be jocular upon one of the few things that make wise men serious, he confounds the living man with the dead:
Under this stone, or under this sill,
Or under this turf, &c.
When a man is once buried, the question, under what he is buried, is easily decided. He forgot, that though he wrote the epitaph in a state of uncertainty, yet it could not be laid over him till his grave was made. Such is the folly of wit when it is ill employed.
The world has but little new; even this wretchedness seems to have been borrowed from the following tuneless lines:
Ludovici Areosti humantur ossa
Sub hoc marmore, vel sub hac humo, seu
Sub quicquid voluit benignus hæres,
Sive hærede benignior comes, seu
Opportunius incidens Viator:
Nam scire haud potuit futura, sed nec
Tanti erat vacuum sibi cadaver
Ut utnam cuperet parere vivens,
Vivens ista tamen sibi caravit,
Quæ inscribi voluit suo sepulchro
Olim siquod haberetis sepulchrum.
Surely Ariosto did not venture to expect that his trifle would have ever had such an illustrious imitator.
BY JOHN SHEFFIELD, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM.
WITH age decay'd, with courts and business tired,
Caring for nothing but what ease required;
Too dully serious for the Muse's sport,
And, from the critics, safe arrived in port;
I little thought of launching forth again,
Amidst adventurous rovers of the pen;
And after so much undeserved success,
Thus hazarding, at last, to make it less.
Encomiums suit not this censorious time,
Itself a subject for satiric rhyme:
Ignorance honour'd, wit and worth defamed,
Folly triumphant, and even Homer blamed!
But to this genius, join'd with so much art,
Such various learning mix'd in every part,
Poets are bound a loud applause to pay;
Apollo bids it, and they must obey.
And yet so wonderful, sublime a thing,
As the great Iliad, scarce could make me sing;
Except I justly could at once commend
A good companion and as firm a friend.
One moral, or a mere well-natured deed,
Can all desert in sciences exceed.
'Tis great delight to laugh at some men's ways, But a much greater to give merit praise.
To praise, and still with just respect to praise,
A bard triumphant in immortal bays;
The learn'd to show, the sensible commend,
Yet still preserve the province of the friend;
What life, what vigour, must the lines require!
What music tune them, what affection fire!
O might thy genius in my bosom shine,
Thou should'st not fail of numbers worthy thine;
The brightest ancients might at once agree
To sing within my lays, and sing of thee.
Horace himself would own thou dost excel
In candid arts to play the critic well.
Ovid himself might wish to sing the dame
Whom Windsor Forest sees a gliding stream;
On silver feet, with annual osier crown'd,
She runs for ever through poetic ground.
How flame the glories of Belinda's hair,
Made by the Muse the envy of the fair!
Less shone the tresses Egypt's princess wore,
Which sweet Callimachus so sung before.
Here courtly trifles set the world at odds;
Belles war with beaux, and whims descend for gods.
The new machines, in names of ridicule,
Mock the grave frenzy of the chemic fool.
But know, ye fair, a point conceal'd with art,
The sylphs and gnomes are but a woman's heart:
The graces stand in sight; a satyr-train
Peeps o'er their head, and laughs behind the scene.
In Fame's fair temple, o'er the boldest wits, Enshrined on high the sacred Virgil sits; And sits in measures such as Virgil's Muse, To place thee near him, might be fond to choose. How might he tune the' alternate reed with thee, Perhaps a Strephon thou, a Daphnis he;
While some old Damon, o'er the vulgar wise,
Thinks he deserves, and thou deservest the prize!
Rapt with the thought, my fancy seeks the plains,
And turns me shepherd while I hear the strains.
Indulgent nurse of every tender gale,
Parent of flowrets, old Arcadia, hail!
Here in the cool my limbs at ease 1 spread,
Here let thy poplars whisper o'er my head;
Still slide thy waters, soft among the trees,
Thy aspin quiver in a breathing breeze!
Smile, all ye valleys in eternal spring,
Be hush'd ye winds, while Pope and Virgil sing.
In English lays, and all sublimely great,
Thy Homer warms with all his ancient heat;
He shines in council, thunders in the fight,
And flames with every sense of great delight.
Long has that poet reign'd, and long unknown,
Like monarchs sparkling on a distant throne;
In all the majesty of Greek retired,
Himself unknown, his mighty name admired;
His language failing, wrapp'd him round with night;
Thine, raised by thee, recalls the work to light.
So wealthy mines, that ages long before
Fed the large realms around with golden ore,
When choked by sinking banks, no more appear,
And shepherds only say, 'The mines were here :'
Should some rich youth (if Nature warms his heart,
And all his projects stand inform'd with art)
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