Epitaph

Mortal! whoe'er thou art, that passest by,
Stop, and behold this stone with heedful eye!
Here lies a Youth, whom Death's resistless power,
In health's full vigour, at the festal hour,
All unprepared, alas! to meet his doom,
Snatch'd suddenly to an untimely tomb.

Mortal take heed! in awful silence think,
Thou stand'st upon Eternity's dread brink;
O listen to Religion's warning cry!
'Man, know thy nature, and prepare to die!'

Thomas Oldham

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Thomas Oldham

Anacreontic

Thomas Oldham, Simple Poetry

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Thomas Oldham, Simple Poetry

Sonnet, On Taking A Favourite Walk, After Recovery From Sickness

Thomas Oldham, Simple Poetry

Epigram On The Late Reform And The Whig Administration

Thomas Oldham, Simple Poetry

English

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An Ode - Inscribed To The Memory Of The Hon. Colonel George Villiers

Say, dearest Villiers, poor departed friend,
(Since fleeting life thus suddenly must end)
Say, what did all thy busy hopes avail,
That anxious thou from pole to pole didst sail,
Ere on thy chin the springing beard began
To spread a doubtful down and promise man?
What profited thy thoughts, and toils, and cares
In vigour more confirmed and riper years,
To wake ere morning-dawn to loud alarms,
And march till close of night in heavy arms,
To scorn the summer's suns and winter's snows,
And search through every clime thy country's foes?
That thou might'st Fortune to thy side engage,
That gentle Peace might quell Bellona's rage,
And Anna's bounty crown her soldier's hoary age?

In vain we think that free-will'd man has power
To hasten or protract th' appointed ...

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Epitaph On Sir Samuel Romilly

What, what can knowledge, virtue, fame, avail?
Crown they with happiness our mortal state?
Ah! no: what dire, unthought-of woes assail!
O wretched Man! thou art the slave of fate.

Lo! Romilly, in pangs, expiring lies!
His frantic hand O horror! doom'd to bleed?
His wakening Conscience opes her frighted eyes
'O God!' she groans, 'I disavow the deed.'

His guardian Angel sheds a pitying tear;
Then, fearless of the heavenly Judge's ire,
He leads his Spirit, blushing to appear,
Into the holy presence of her Sire.

Thomas Oldham

A Poet's Epitaph

Art thou a Statist in the van
Of public conflicts trained and bred?
First learn to love one living man;
'Then' may'st thou think upon the dead.

A Lawyer art thou? draw not nigh!
Go, carry to some fitter place
The keenness of that practised eye,
The hardness of that sallow face.

Art thou a Man of purple cheer?
A rosy Man, right plump to see?
Approach; yet, Doctor, not too near,
This grave no cushion is for thee.

Or art thou one of gallant pride,
A Soldier and no man of chaff?
Welcome! but lay thy sword aside,
And lean upon a peasant's staff.

Physician art thou? one, all eyes,
Philosopher! a fingering slave,
One that would peep and botanise
Upon his mother's grave?

Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece,
O turn...

William Wordsworth

Epitaph

Stop, Christian passer-by: Stop, child of God,
And read, with gentle breast. Beneath this sod
A poet lies, or that which once seem'd he
O, lift one thought in prayer for S. T. C.
That he who many a year with toil of breath
Found death in life, may here find life in death:
Mercy for praise, to be forgiven for fame
He ask'd, and hoped through Christ. Do thou the same.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Inscription For The Tomb Of Mr. Hamilton.

Pause here and think: a monitory rhyme
Demands one moment of thy fleeting time.
Consult lifes silent clock, thy bounding vein;
Seems it to sayHealth here has long to reign?
Hast thou the vigour of thy youth? an eye
That beams delight? a heart untaught to sigh?
Yet fear. Youth, ofttimes healthful and at ease,
Anticipates a day it never sees;
And many a tomb, like Hamiltons, aloud
Exclaims Prepare thee for an early shroud.

William Cowper

Epitaph. On Matilda.

Sacred to Pity! is upraised this stone,
The humble tribute of a friend unknown;
To grant the beauteous wreck its hallow'd claim,
And add to misery's scroll another name.
Poor lost MATILDA! now in silence laid
Within the early grave thy sorrows made.
Sleep on!--his heart still holds thy image dear,
Who view'd, through life, thy errors with a tear;
Who ne'er with stoic apathy repress'd
The heartfelt sigh for loveliness distress'd.
That sigh for thee shall ne'er forget to heave;
'Tis all he now can give, or thou receive.
When last I saw thee in thy envied bloom,
That promised health and joy for years to come,
Methought the lily nature proudly gave,
Would never wither in th' untimely grave.

Ah, sad reverse! too soon the fated hour
Saw the dire tempest '...

Thomas Gent