If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt;
At least in six weeks I could not find 'em out;
Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied 'em,
That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em.

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 Townshend1 to lend him a vote;
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,
And thought of convincing while they thought of dining :
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 honour, 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.

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!

1 Tommy Townshend.-"One of the most active of the second-rate politicians, and the great go-between of the attempted alliance between the Chatham and Rockingham Whigs. Tommy Townshend - so called, not satirically, but to distinguish him from his father."-Forster. He sat for Whitchurch, and was afterwards Lord Sidney.

In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,
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,
He grew lazy at last, and drew for himself?

Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax,
The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks:
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 Kenricks2 shall lecture ;
Macpherson3 write bombast, and call it a style,

Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile ;

Our Dodds.-The Rev. Wm. Dodd, LL.D., a man of learning and eloquence, but without principle or integrity. He was a popular preacher, wrote a novel of doubtful morality, published numerous compilations, and edited the "Christian Magazine." He ended a discreditable life on the gallows, for forgery, on the 24th of February, 1777.

* Our Kenricks.-William Kenrick, a hack-writer of moderate ability and immoderate malignity. He assailed Johnson, who treated him with silent contempt; and attacked Goldsmith on several occasions, in reviews and magazines. Bickerstaff describes him as "the vilest miscreant that ever dishonoured a pretension to literature." Boswell says he obtained his degree of LL.D. from a Scotch university. "He used to lecture," says Mr. Forster, "on every conceivable subject, from Shakespeare to perpetual motion." Finally, he took to drinking, destroyed his constitution, and died in 1779.

3 Macpherson.-James Macpherson, the author of the poems of Ossian, of a prose translation of the Iliad" of Homer,

New Lauders1 and Bowers2 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 me who can,

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;

and other works. Dr. Johnson denounced the former to be "as gross an imposition as ever the world was troubled with." Macpherson wrote an angry letter; and Johnson, in reply, called him a cheat and a ruffian. Macpherson never produced the Ossian MSS, and the authenticity of the poems is still an unsettled question. He died in 1796.

Lauders.-William Lauder, a Scotchman, who is now remembered only for his attack upon Milton, whom he accused of plagiarisms. Dr. Douglas, in his defence of Milton, convicted Lauder of forgery and imposture in his quotations, who was forced by Dr Johnson to subscribe a confession, which was published. Lauder lost character, was ruined and despised, and went to Barbadoes, where he died in 1771.

2 Bowers.-Archibald Bower, a Scotch Roman Catholic. He entered, as a noviciate, the Order of Jesuits, at Rome became a professor, at Macerata; and after various adventures came to England, was introduced to Clarke and Berkeley, and conformed to the Church of England. Lord Lyttleton gave him the custody of his sons, and he wrote for the booksellers. He rejoined the Jesuits, and again left them. His principal work was a history of the Popes. He died in 1765

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 colours 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 turned 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 back.
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!
How 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:

Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill,

Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will;

Old Shakespeare receive him with praise and with love,
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys 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.

"

Ye Kellys.-Hugh Kelly, an Irishman, who went to London, and took to writing for periodicals. Garrick patronised him, and under his auspices he produced his first comedy. False Delicacy," which was very successful. "A Word to the Wise" (for which, after his death, Johnson wrote a prologue), "Clementina," "The School for Wives," and other pieces, were written by him. He was called to the Bar in 1774, and was making rapid proficiency, when he died, after a short illness, in 1777.

Wood falls. -William Woodfall, the printer of " 'Junius's Letters" in the Public Advertiser, and subsequently proprietor and editor of the Morning Chronicle. He died in 1803

31

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 talk'd of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff,
He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff,

STANZAS

ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC, AND DEATH OF GENERAL WOLFE.

MIDST the clamour of exulting joys,

A

Which triumph forces from the patriot heart,
Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice,

And quells the raptures which from pleasure start.

O Wolfe! to thee a streaming flood of woe,
Sighing, we pay, and think e'en conquest dear;
Quebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow,
While thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear,

Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,

And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes; Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead, Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise.