Epitaph

            On Lord Aubrey Beauclerk(45), in Westminster Abbey, 1740.


Whilst Britain boasts her empire o'er the deep,
This marble shall compel the brave to weep:
As men, as Britons, and as soldiers, mourn;
'Tis dauntless, loyal, virtuous Beauclerk's urn.
Sweet were his manners, as his soul was great,
And ripe his worth, though immature his fate;
Each tender grace that joy and love inspires,
Living, he mingled with his martial fires:
Dying, he bid Britannia's thunders roar;
And Spain still felt him, when he breath'd no more.


45 Lord Aubrey Beauclerk was the eighth son of the Duke of St. Albans, who was one of the sons of King Charles the Second. He was born in the year 1711; and, being regularly bred to the sea service, in 1731 he was appointed to the command of his majesty's ship the Ludlow Castle; and he commanded the Prince Frederick at the attack of the harbour of Carthagena, March 24, 1741. This young nobleman was one of the most promising commanders in the king's service. When on the desperate attack of the castle of Bocca Chica, at the entrance of the said harbour, he lost his life, both his legs being first shot off. The prose part of the inscription on his monument was the production of Mrs. Mary Jones of Oxford; who also wrote a poem on his death, printed in her Miscellanies, 8vo, 1752.--_R._

Edward Young

Edward Young was an English poet, best remembered for his poem "Night-Thoughts". Born in 1683, he was educated at Westminster School and later at Oxford University. Young's work is considered part of the Augustan and early Romantic eras. His philosophical and religious reflections in "Night-Thoughts" greatly influenced European literature. Young also wrote plays and essays and was an ordained minister. He passed away on April 5, 1765.

Edward Young

Historical Epilogue To The Brothers. A Tragedy.

Edward Young, Simple Poetry

Epistles To Mr. Pope. Epistle II. From Oxford.

Edward Young, Simple Poetry

The Force Of Religion; Or, Vanquished Love. Book II.

Edward Young, Simple Poetry

Ocean. An Ode.

Edward Young, Simple Poetry

English

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Epitaph On Sir Palmes Fairbone's Tomb In Westminster Abbey.

Sacred To The Immortal Memory Of Sir Palmes Fairbone, Knight, Governor Of Tangier; In Execution Of Which Command, He Was Mortally Wounded By A Shot From The Moors, Then Besieging The Town, In The Forty-Sixth Year Of His Age. October 24, 1680.


Ye sacred relics, which your marble keep,
Here, undisturb'd by wars, in quiet sleep:
Discharge the trust, which, when it was below,
Pairbone's undaunted soul did undergo,
And be the town's Palladium from the foe.
Alive and dead these walls he will defend:
Great actions great examples must attend.
The Candian siege his early valour knew,
Where Turkish blood did his young hands imbrue.
From thence returning with deserved applause,
Against the Moors his well-flesh'd sword he draws;
The same the courage, and the same the cause.
...

John Dryden

Epitaph XIV. On Edmund Duke Of Buckingham, Who Died In The Nineteenth Year Of His Age, 1735.

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.

Alexander Pope

Epitaph On A Tuft-Hunter.

Lament, lament, Sir Isaac Heard,
    Put mourning round thy page, Debrett,
For here lies one who ne'er preferred
    A Viscount to a Marquis yet.

Beside him place the God of Wit,
    Before him Beauty's rosiest girls,
Apollo for a star he'd quit,
    And Love's own sister for an Earl's.

Did niggard fate no peers afford,
    He took of course to peers' relations;
And rather than not sport a Lord
    Put up with even the last creations;

Even Irish names could he but tag 'em
    With "Lord" and "Duke," were sweet to call;
And at a pinch Lord Ballyraggum
    Was better than no Lord at all.

Heaven grant him now some noble nook,
    For rest his soul! he'd rather be
Genteelly damned beside a Duke,
    Than saved in vulga...

Thomas Moore

Epitaph On Napoleon

Lo! here, on this lone isle amid the deeps,
From his proud height of conquest, greatness hurl'd,
Buried in silent night, Napoleon sleeps!
Long Gallia's boast, the wonder of the world!

Though humbly born, Ambition claim'd her child;
Fate urged him on, his great career to fill;
On him, in war, in dangers, Fortune smiled;
And on his eagles Victory waited still.

By battles won, by policy profound,
Kings he dethroned, fill'd Europe with dismay:
England alone, of all the nations round,
His power opposed, disdaining to obey.

Forced by the flames of Moscow to retreat,
Half his vast host by cold, by famine, dies.
Famed Waterloo beheld his last defeat;
There sunk his glory's sun; ne'er more to rise.

Briton! from this sad spot ere thou depart,

Thomas Oldham

Epitaph I. On Charles Earl Of Dorset, In The Church Of Withyam, In Sussex.

'His saltem accumulem donis, et fungar inani Munere!'

VIRG.

Dorset, the grace of courts, the Muses' pride,
Patron of arts, and judge of nature, died.
The scourge of pride, though sanctified or great,
Of fops in learning, and of knaves in state:
Yet soft his nature, though severe his lay,
His anger moral, and his wisdom gay.
Bless'd satirist! who touch'd the mean so true,
As show'd vice had his hate and pity too.
Blest courtier! who could king and country please,
Yet sacred keep his friendships, and his ease.
Blest peer! his great forefathers' every grace
Reflecting, and reflected in his race;
Where other Buckhursts, other Dorsets shine,
And patriots still, or poets, deck the line.

Alexander Pope

Epitaph At Welwyn, Hertfordshire.

            If fond of what is rare, attend!
                    Here lies an honest man,
                            Of perfect piety,
                        Of lamblike patience,
                    My friend, James Barker;
            To whom I pay this mean memorial,
            For what deserves the greatest.
                                An example
Which shone through all the clouds of fortune,
                    Industrious in low estate,
    The lesson and reproach of those above him.
                        To lay this little stone
                            Is my ambition;
                            While others rear
The polish'd marbles of the great!
                    Vain pomp;
A turf o'er virtue charms us more.

            E. Y....

Edward Young