Chapter XLVI: A domestic picture is given, an interior, with the (12)

The following is a copy of the epitaph written by Franklin upon himself, at the age of twenty-three, while a journeyman printer:—

The Body
of
§Benjamin Franklin§, Printer,
(Like the cover of an old book,
Its contents torn out,
And stript of its lettering and gilding,)
Lies food for worms:
Yet the work itself shall not be lost,
For it will [as he believed] appear once more,
In a new
And more beautiful edition,
Corrected and amended
by
The Author.

That this well-known typographical inscription was plagiarized from Mather’s _Magnalia Christi Americana_, is evident from Franklin’s own admission of his familiarity with the works of “the great Cotton.” To the perusal in early life of Mather’s excellent volume, _Essays to do Good_, published in 1710, Franklin ascribed all his “usefulness in the world.” The lines alluded to in the famous Ecclesiastical History are by Benjamin Woodbridge, a member of the first graduating class of Harvard University, 1642:—

A living, breathing Bible; tables where
Both Covenants at large engraven were.
Gospel and law, in ’s heart, had each its column;
His head an index to the sacred volume;
His very name a title-page; and, next,
His life a commentary on the text.
O what a monument of glorious worth,
When, in a new edition, he comes forth!
Without errata may we think he’ll be,
In leaves and covers of eternity!

Old Joseph Capen, minister of Topsfield, had also, in 1681, given John Foster, who set up the first printing-press in Boston, the benefit of the idea, _in memoriam_:—

Thy body, which no activeness did lack,
Now’s laid aside like an old almanac,
But for the present only’s out of date;
’Twill have at length a far more active state.
Yea, though with dust thy body soiléd be,
Yet at the resurrection we shall see
A fair edition, and of matchless worth,
Free from errata, new in Heaven set forth;
’Tis but a word from God, the great Creator—
It shall be done when he saith _Imprimatur_.

Davis, in his _Travels in America_, finds another source in a Latin epitaph on the London bookseller Jacob Tonson, published with an English translation in the _Gentleman’s Magazine_ for Feb., 1736. This is its conclusion:—

When Heaven reviewed th’ _original text_,
’Twas with _erratas_ few perplexed:
Pleased with the _copy_ ’t was _collated_,
And to a better life _translated_.
But let to life this _supplement_
Be printed on thy _monument_,
Lest the _first page_ of _death_ should be,
Great editor, a _blank_ to thee;
And thou who many _titles_ gave
Should want _one title_ for this grave.
Stay, passenger, and drop a tear;
Here lies a noted Bookseller;
This marble _index_ here is placed
To tell, that when he found defaced
His _book of life_, he died with grief:
Yet he, by true and genuine belief,
A new edition may expect,
Far more _enlarged_ and more _correct_.

AT MONTICELLO, VA.
Here lies buried
§Thomas Jefferson§,
Author of the Declaration of American Independence,
Of the Statute of Virginia for Religious Freedom,
And Father of the University of Virginia.

WILLIAM HOGARTH.

Garrick’s epitaph on Hogarth at Chiswick is well known. That written by Dr. Johnson is shorter and superior:—

The hand of him here torpid lies,
That drew the essential form of grace;
Here closed in death the attentive eyes
That saw the manners in the face.

LORD BROUGHAM’S EPITAPH ON WATT, WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

Not to perpetuate a name
Which must endure while the peaceful arts flourish,
But to show
That mankind have learned to honor those
Who best deserve their gratitude,
The King, his Ministers, and many of the Nobles
And Commoners of the Realm
Raised this Monument to
§James Watt§,
Who, directing the force of an original genius,
Early exercised in philosophic research,
To the improvement of
The Steam Engine,
Enlarged the resources of his Country,
Increased the power of man,
And rose to an eminent place
Among the most illustrious followers of Science
And the real benefactors of the World.

EULOGISTIC, APT, APPROPRIATE.

BEN JONSON’S ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE.

Underneath this marble hearse
Lies the subject of all verse,
Sydney’s sister,—Pembroke’s mother.
Death, ere thou hast slain another
Fair, and wise, and good as she,
Time shall throw a dart at thee!

Marble piles let no man raise
To her name for after days;
Some kind woman born as she,
Reading this, like Niobe,
Shall turn marble, and become
Both her mourner and her tomb.

ON ANOTHER LADY FRIEND.

Underneath this stone doth lie
As much beauty as could die,
Which in life did harbor give
To more virtue than doth live.

ANDREW JACKSON’S EPITAPH ON HIS WIFE.

Here lie the remains of §Mrs. Rachel Jackson§, wife of President
Jackson, who died December 22d, 1828, aged 61. Her face was fair, her
person pleasing, her temper amiable, and her heart kind. She delighted
in relieving the wants of her fellow-creatures, and cultivated that
divine pleasure by the most liberal and unpretending methods. To the
poor she was a benefactress; to the rich she was an example; to the
wretched a comforter; to the prosperous an ornament. Her pity went
hand in hand with her benevolence; and she thanked her Creator for
being permitted to do good. A being so gentle and yet so virtuous,
slander might wound, but could not dishonor. Even death, when he tore
her from the arms of her husband, could but transplant her to the
bosom of her God.

BISHOP LOWTH’S EPITAPH ON HIS DAUGHTER.

Cara, vale, ingenio præstans, pietate, pudore,
Et plus quam natæ nomine cara, vale.
Cara Maria, vale: ab veniet felicius ævum,
Quando iterum tecum, sim modo dignus, ero.
Cara redi, lætâ tum dicam voce, paternos
Eja age in amplexus, cara Maria, redi!

[Dearer than daughter,—paralleled by few
In genius, goodness, modesty,—adieu!
Adieu! Maria,—till that day more blest,
When, if deserving, I with thee shall rest.
Come, then, thy sire will cry in joyful strain,
Oh, come to my paternal arms again.]

IN THE CHURCHYARD OF OLD ST. PANCRAS.

_Miss Basnett, 1756, æt. 23._

Go, spotless honor and unsullied truth;
Go, smiling innocence, and blooming youth;
Go, female sweetness joined with manly sense;
Go, winning wit, that never gave offence;
Go, soft humanity, that blest the poor;
Go, saint-eyed patience, from affliction’s door
Go, modesty that never wore a frown;
Go, virtue, and receive thy heavenly crown.
Not from a stranger came this heartfelt verse:
The friend inscribed thy tomb, whose tear bedewed thy hearse.

MALHERBE’S EPITAPH ON A YOUNG LADY.

Elle était de ce monde, ou les plus belles choses
Ont le pire destin;
Et, rose, elle a vécu ce que vivent les roses,
L’espace d’un matin.

[She was of this world, where all things the rarest
Have still the shortest race;
A rose she lived (so lives of flowers the fairest)
A little morning’s space!]

IN ST. MARY’S CHURCH, NOTTINGHAM.

§Luke xx. 36.§

Sleep on in peace; await thy Maker’s will;
Then rise unchanged, and be an angel still!

In the church of Ightham, near Sevenoaks, Kent, is a mural monument with the bust of a lady, who was famous for her needle-work and was traditionally reported to have written the letter to Lord Monteagle which resulted in the discovery of the Gunpowder Plot. The following is the inscription:—

D. D. D.
To the pretious name and honour of Dame Dorothy Selby, Relict of
Sir William Selby, Kt. the only daughter and heire of Charles Bonham,
Esq.
She was a Dorcas,
Whose curious needle wound the abused stage
Of this leud world into the golden age;
Whose pen of steel and silken inck enrolled
The acts of Jonah in records of gold;
Whose arte disclosed that plot, which, had it taken,
Rome had triumphed, and Britain’s walls had shaken.
She was
In heart a Lydia, and in tongue a Hanna;
In zeale a Ruth, in wedlock a Susanna;
Prudently simple, providently wary,
To the world a Martha, and to heaven a Mary.
Who put on { in the year } Pilgrimage, 69.
immortality { of her } Redeemer, 1641.

AT WESTFIELD, N. J.

_Mrs. Jennet Woodruff, 1750, æt. 43._

The dame, that rests within this tomb,
Had Rachel’s beauty, Leah’s fruitful womb,
Abigail’s wisdom, Lydia’s faithful heart,
Martha’s just care, and Mary’s better part.

AT QUINCY, MASS.

1708.

Braintree, thy prophet’s gone; this tomb inters
The Rev. Moses Fiske his sacred herse.
Adore heaven’s praiseful art, that formed the man,
Who souls, not to himself, but Christ oft won;
Sailed through the straits with Peter’s family
Renowned, and Gaius’ hospitality,
Paul’s patience, James’s prudence, John’s sweet love,
Is landed, entered, cleared, and crowned above.

IN CRANSTON, R.I.

Here lies the Body of
§Joseph Williams, Esq.§
Son of Roger Williams, Esq.
(The first white man that came to Providence.)
Born 1644. Died 1725.

In King Philip’s war, he courageously went through,
And the native Indians he bravely did subdue;
And now he’s gone down into the grave, and he will be no more
Until it please Almighty God his body to restore
Into some proper shape, as he thinks fit to be,
Perhaps like a grain of wheat, as Paul set forth, you see,
Corinthians 1 Book, 15 chap. 37 verse.

ON THE TOMB OF MRS. DUNBAR, TRENTON, N.J.

The meed of merit ne’er shall die,
Nor modest worth neglected lie,
The fame that pious virtue gives,
The Memphian monuments outlives.
Reader, wouldst thou secure such praise,
Go, learn Religion’s pleasant ways.

POPE’S EPITAPH ON HARCOURT.

To this sad shrine, whoe’er thou art! draw near;
Here lies the friend most loved, the son most dear:
Who ne’er knew joy but friendship might divide,
Or gave his father grief but when he died.

The idea in the last line appears to be derived from an epitaph on an excellent wife, in the Roman catacombs:—

§Conjugi piissimæ
de qua nihil aliud dolitus est
nisi mortem.§

ON A SPANISH GIRL WHO DIED BROKEN-HEARTED.

She who lies beneath this stone
Died of constancy alone:
Fear not to approach, oh, passer-by—
Of naught contagious did she die.

One of the simplest, truest, and most dignified epitaphs ever written may be found in the _Spectator_, No. 518:—

§Hic jacet R. C. in expectatione diei supremi.
Qualis erat dies iste indicabit.§

AT BARNSTABLE, MASS.

_Rev. Joseph Green, 1770, æt. 70._

Think what the Christian minister should be,
You’ve then his character, for such was he.

A similar epitaph may be found in Torrington churchyard, Devon:—

She was—but words are wanting to say what.
Think what a woman should be—she was that.

Which provoked the following reply:—

A woman should be both a wife and mother,
But Jenny Jones was neither one nor t’other.

AT GRIMSTEAD, ESSEX.

A wife so true, there are but few,
And difficult to find;
A wife more just, and true to trust,
There is not left behind.

AT BATON ROUGE, LA.

Here lies the body of David Jones. His last words were, “I die a
Christian and a Democrat.”

AT ELIZABETH CITY, N. J.

_Elias Boudinot, 1770, æt. 63._

This modest stone, what few vain marbles can,
May truly say, Here lies an honest man.[27]

Footnote 27:

From Pope’s Epitaph on Fenton.

ON SIR THOMAS VERE.

When Vere sought death, armed with his sword and shield,
Death was afraid to meet him in the field;
But when his weapons he had laid aside,
Death, like a coward, struck him, and he died.

BEN JONSON’S EPITAPH ON MICHAEL DRAYTON.

(_One of the Elizabethan Poets, ob. 1631._)

Do, pious Marble, let thy readers know
What they and what their children owe
To §Drayton’s§ name, whose sacred dust
We recommend unto thy §TRUST§:
Protect his memory and preserve his story,
Remain a lasting monument of his glory;
And when thy ruins shall disclaim
To be the treasurer of his name,
His name, that cannot fade, shall be
An everlasting monument to thee!

The epigrammatic turn in the concluding stanza was evidently plagiarized from Ion’s inscription upon the tomb of Euripides, which is thus faithfully translated:—

Divine Euripides, this tomb we see
So fair, is not a monument for thee,
So much as thou for it; since all will own
Thy name and lasting praise adorn the stone.

IN TICHFIELD CHURCH, HANTS.

The Husband, speakinge trewly of his wife,
Read his losse in hir death, hir praise in life:
Heare Lucie Quinsie Bromfield buried lies,
With neighbors sad deepe, weepinge, hartes, sighes, eyes.
Children eleaven, tenne livinge, me she brought.
More kind, trewe, chaste was noane, in deed, word, thought.
Howse, children, state, by hir was ruld, bred, thrives.
One of the best of maides, of women, wives,
Now gone to God, her heart sent long before;
In fasting, prayer, faith, hope, and alms’ deedes stoare.
If anie faulte, she lovéd me too much.
Ah, pardon that, for ther are too fewe such!
Then, reader, if thou not hard-hearted be,
Praise God for hir, but sigh and praie for me.
Heare, by hir dead, I dead desire to lie,
Till, raised to life, wee meet no more to die.
1618.

ON INFANTS AND CHILDREN.

The following epitaph on an infant is by Samuel Wesley, the author of the caustic lines on the custom of perpetuating lies on monumental marble, by commemorating virtues which never had an existence,—ending thus:—

If on his specious marble we rely,
Pity such worth as his should ever die!
If credit to his real life we give,
Pity a wretch like him should ever live!

ON AN INFANT.

Beneath, a sleeping infant lies.
To earth whose ashes lent
More glorious shall hereafter rise,
But not more innocent.

When the archangel’s trump shall blow,
And souls and bodies join,
What crowds will wish their lives below
Had been as short as thine!

ON FOUR INFANTS BURIED IN THE SAME TOMB.

Bold infidelity, turn pale and die!
Beneath this stone four infants’ ashes lie:
Say, are they lost or saved?
If death’s by sin, they sinned; for they are here;
If heaven’s by works, in heaven they can’t appear.
Reason, ah, how depraved!
Revere the Bible’s sacred page; the knot’s untied:
They died, for Adam sinned; they live, for Jesus died.

IN MOUNT AUBURN CEMETERY.

On the base of a beautiful recumbent statuette in Yarrow Path is inscribed:—

EMILY.
Shed not for her the bitter tear,
Nor give the heart to vain regret;
Tis but the casket that lies here:
The gem that filled it sparkles yet.

ON A LITTLE BOY IN GREENWOOD CEMETERY.

Our §God§, to call us homeward,
His only §Son§ sent down;
And now, still more to tempt our hearts,
Has taken up our own.

ON THE TOMBSTONE OF A CHILD BLIND FROM BIRTH.

There shall be no night there.

ON A CHILD FOUR YEARS OLD, WHO WAS BURNED TO DEATH.

“O!”
Says the gardener, as he passes down the walk,
“Who destroyed that flower? Who plucked that plant?”
His fellow-servant said,
“The Master.”
And the gardener held his peace.

AT LITIZ, LANCASTER COUNTY, PA.

Oh, blest departed one!
Whose all of life—a rosy ray—
Blushed into dawn and passed away.

Uhland’s beautiful epitaph on an infant[28] has been thus paraphrased:—

Thou art come and gone with footfall low,
A wanderer hastening to depart;
Whither, and whence? we only know
From God thou wast, with God thou art.

Footnote 28:

Du kamst, Du gingst mit leiser Spur,
Ein flucht’ger Gast in Erdenland:
Woher? wohin?—Wer wissen nur
Aus Gottes hand in Gottes hand.

Better than this in spirit, by all that makes Christian faith and hope better than vague questioning, and fully equal to it in poetic merit, is the following by F. T. Palgrave:—

Pure, sweet, and fair, ere thou could’st taste of ill,
God willed it and thy baby breath was still;
Now ’mong his lambs thou livest thy Saviour’s care,
Forever as thou wast, pure, sweet and fair.

COPIED FROM VARIOUS SOURCES.

Just with her lips the cup of life she pressed,
Found the taste bitter and declined the rest;
Averse then turning from the light of day,
She softly sighed her little soul away.

* * * * *

The child that sleeps within this silent tomb
Departed at the end of two short years:
Many will wish when the great Judge shall come,
They’d lived no longer in this vale of tears.

* * * * *

This lovely bud, so young, so fair,
Called hence by early doom,
Just came to show how sweet a flower
In Paradise would bloom.

This by Burton, author of _The Anatomy of Melancholy_:—

Can nurse choose in her sweet babe more to find
Than goods of Fortune, Body, and of Mind?
Lo here at once all this; what greater bliss
Canst hope or wish? Heaven. Why there he is.

ON A TOMBSTONE IN AUVERGNE.

Marie was the only child of her mother,
“And she was a widow.”
Marie sleeps in this grave—
And the widow has now no child.

HISTORICAL EPITAPH.

A person of the name of Mary Scott was buried near the church of Dalkeith, in 1728, for whom the following singular epitaph was composed, but never engraved on her tombstone, though it has been frequently mentioned as copied from it:—

Stop, passenger, until my life you read:
The living may get knowledge from the dead.
Five times five years unwedded was my life;
Five times five years I was a virtuous wife;
Ten times five years I wept a widow’s woes;
Now, tired of human scenes, I here repose.
Betwixt my cradle and my grave were seen
Seven mighty Kings of Scotland and a Queen.
Full twice five years the Commonwealth I saw,
Ten times the subjects rise against the law;
And, which is worse than any civil war,
A king arraigned before the subjects’ bar;
Swarms of sectarians, hot with hellish rage,
Cut off his royal head upon the stage.
Twice did I see old Prelacy pulled down,
And twice the cloak did sink beneath the gown.
I saw the Stuart race thrust out,—nay, more,
I saw our country sold for English ore;
Our numerous nobles, who have famous been,
Sunk to the lowly number of sixteen;
Such desolation in my days have been,
I have an end of all perfection seen.

BIOGRAPHICAL.

ON THE MONUMENT OF A DROPSICAL LADY.

Here lies Dame Mary Page,
Relict of Sir Gregory Page, Bart.
She departed this life, March 4th, 1728,
In the 56th year of her age.
In 67 months she was tapped 66 times, and
Had taken away 240 gallons of water.

AT THE OLD MEN’S HOSPITAL, NORWICH, ENG.

In Memory of Mrs. Phebe Crewe, who died May 28, 1817, aged 77 years;
who, during forty years’ practice as a midwife in this city, brought
into the world nine thousand seven hundred and thirty children.

IN THE ABBEY CHURCH OF CONWAY.

Here lyeth the body of Nich^{las} Hooker, who was the one and fortieth
child of his father by Alice his only wife, and the father of seven
and twenty children by one wife. He died March 20th, 1637.

AT WOLSTANTON.

Mrs. Ann Jennings.
Some have children, some have none:
Here lies the mother of twenty-one.

IN THE CHURCHYARD OF HEYDON.

Here lieth the body of William Strutton, of Paddington, buried May
18th, 1734, who had by his first wife, 28 children, and by a second
wife, 17; own father to 45, grandfather to 86, great-grandfather to
97, and great-great-grandfather to 23; in all, 251.

IN THE CHURCHYARD OF PEWSEY, WILTSHIRE.

Here lies the body of Lady O’Looney, great-niece of Burke, commonly
called the sublime. She was bland, passionate, and deeply religious;
also, she painted in water-colors, and sent several pictures to the
exhibition. She was first cousin to Lady Jones; and of such is the
kingdom of heaven.

IN CRAYFORD CHURCHYARD, KENT.

Here lieth the body of Peter Snell, thirty-five years clerk of the
parish. He lived respected as a pious and faithful man, and died on
his way to church to assist at a wedding, on the 31st day of March,
1811. Aged 70 years. The inhabitants of Crayford have raised this
stone to his cheerful memory, and as a tribute to his long and
faithful services.

The life of this clerk was just threescore and ten,
Nearly half of which time he had sung out Amen.
In his youth he was married, like other young men,
But his wife died one day, so he chanted Amen.
A second he took; she departed: what then?
He married and buried a third with Amen.
Thus his joys and his sorrows were _treble_; but then
His voice was deep _bass_, as he sang out Amen.
On the horn he could blow as well as most men,
So “his horn was exalted” in blowing Amen.
But he lost all his wind after threescore and ten,
And here with his wives he waits till again
The trumpet shall rouse him to sing out Amen.

AT WREXHAM, WALES.

Elihu Yale, (founder of Yale College,) ob. 1721, æt. 73.

Born in America, in Europe bred,
In Afric travelled, and in Asia wed;
Where long he lived and thrived, in London dead.
Much good, some ill, he did; so hope all’s even,
And that his soul through mercy’s gone to Heaven.
You that survive, and read this tale, take care,
For this most certain exit to prepare,
Where, blest in peace, the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in the silent dust.

SELF-WRITTEN.

MATTHEW PRIOR’S.

Painters and heralds, by your leave,
Here lie the bones of Matthew Prior,
The son of Adam and of Eve:—
Let Bourbon or Nassau go higher!

It is said (and the statement appears highly probable) that Prior borrowed his lines from the following very ancient epitaph upon a tombstone in Scotland:—

John Carnagie lies here,
Descended from Adam and Eve;
If any can boast of a pedigree higher,
He will willingly give them leave.

COLERIDGE’S.

Stop, Christian passer-by! stop, child of God,
And read with gentle heart. Beneath this sod
A poet lies, or that which once seemed he:—
O lift a 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 asked, and hoped through Christ. Do thou the same!

JOHN BACON’S, TOTTENHAM COURT CHAPEL.

What I was as an Artist
Seemed to me of some importance
while I lived;
But what I really was as a believer
in Christ Jesus,
is the only thing of importance
to me now.

DR. COOPER’S, EDINBURGH.

Here lies a priest of English blood,
Who, living, liked whate’er was good,—
Good company, good wine, good name,
Yet never hunted after fame;
But as the first he still preferred,
So here he chose to be interred,
And, unobscured, from crowds withdrew
To rest among a chosen few,
In humble hopes that sovereign love
Will raise him to be blest above.

POPE ADRIAN’S.

Adrianus, Papa VI., hic situs est, que nihil sibi
Infelicius in vita, quam quod imperaret duxit.

SHEIL’S, (THE IRISH ORATOR).

Here lie I. There’s an end to my woes.
And my spirit at length at _aise_ is,
With the tip of my nose, and the ends of my toes,
Turned up ’gainst the roots of the daisies.

The eccentric Sternhold Oakes offered a reward for the best epitaph for his grave. Several tried for the prize, but they flattered him too much, he thought. At last he undertook it himself; and the following was the result:—

Here lies the body of Sternhold Oakes,
Who lived and died like other folks.

That was satisfactory, and the old gentleman claimed the prize, which, as he had the paying of it, was of course allowed.

MORALIZING AND ADMONITORY.

AT KENNEBUNK, MAINE.

Rev. Daniel Little, 1801.
Memento mori! preached his ardent youth,
Memento mori! spoke maturer years;
Memento mori! sighed his latest breath,
Memento mori! now this stone declares.

AT ANDOVER, MASS.

John Abbot, 1793, æt. 90.
Grass, smoke, a flower, a vapor, shade, a span,
Serve to illustrate the frail life of man;
And they, who longest live, survive to see
The certainty of death, of life the vanity.

IN LLANGOWEN CHURCHYARD, WALES.

Our life is but a summer’s day:
Some only breakfast, and away;
Others to dinner stay, and are full fed;
The oldest man but sups, and goes to bed.
Large his account, who lingers out the day;
Who goes the soonest, has the least to pay.

IN ST. SAVIOUR’S CHURCHYARD, SOUTHWARK.

Like to the damask rose you see,
Or like the blossom on the tree,
Or like the dainty flower of May,
Or like the morning of the day,
Or like the sun, or like the shade,
Or like the gourd which Jonas had;
Even so is man, whose thread is spun,
Drawn out, and cut, and so is done.
The rose withers, the blossom blasteth,
The flower fades, the morning hasteth:
The sun sets, the shadow flies,
The gourd consumes, and man he dies.

IN GILLINGHAM CHURCHYARD, ENG.

Take time in time while time doth last,
For time is not time when time is past.

GARRICK’S EPITAPH ON QUINN, ABBEY CHURCH, BATH.

Here lies James Quinn! Deign reader, to be taught,
Whate’er thy strength of body, force of thought,
In nature’s happiest mould however cast,
To this complexion thou must come at last.

IN NEWINGTON CHURCHYARD.

Through Christ, I am not inferior
To William the Conqueror.

IN LINCOLNSHIRE, ENGLAND.

Under this solitary sod
There lies a man
Whose ways were very odd:
Whatever his faults were,
Let them alone.
Let thy utmost care be
To mend thine own:
Let him without a sin
First cast a stone.

ADVERTISING INSCRIPTIONS AND NOTICES.

IN WILTSHIRE, ENGLAND.

Beneath this stone in hopes of Zion,
Is laid the landlord of the Lion.
Resigned unto the heavenly will,
His son keeps on the business still.

In the cemetery of Montmartre, a memorial to a Parisian tradesman, killed in an émeute in the earlier part of the reign of Louis Phillippe, concludes with this advertisement:—

This tomb was executed by his bereaved widow (_veuve_ désolée,) who
still carries on his business at No. — Rue St. Martin.

This announcement is from a Spanish journal:—

This morning our Saviour summoned away the jeweller Siebald Illmaga
from his shop to another and better world. The undersigned, his widow,
will weep upon his tomb, as will also his two daughters, Hilda and
Emma, the former of whom is married, and the latter is open to an
offer. The funeral will take place to-morrow. His disconsolate widow,
Veronique Illmaga. P. S.—This bereavement will not interrupt our
business, which will be carried on as usual, only our place of
business will be removed from No. 3, Tessi de Teinturiers, to No. 4
Rue de Missionaire, as our grasping landlord has raised our rent.

UNIQUE AND LUDICROUS EPITAPHS.

ON A CONNECTICUT MAN WITH A REMARKABLE TUMOR.

Our father lies beneath the sod,
His spirit’s gone unto his God;
We never more shall hear his tread,
_Nor see the wen upon his head_.

ON THE BELOVED PARTNER OF ROBERT KEMP.

She once was mine
But now, oh, Lord,
I her to Thee resign,
and remain your obedient, humble servant, Robert Kemp.

ON A MISER.

Here lies old Father Gripe, who never cried _Jam satis_;
’Twould wake him did he know you read his tombstone gratis.

REQUIESCAT IN PACE.

Here lies the body of Obadiah Wilkinson,
and Ruth, his wife:
Their warfare is accomplished.

ON MISS GWIN.

Here lies the body of Nancy Gwin,
Who was so very pure within,
She burst her outward shell of sin,
And hatched herself a cherubim.

Whether this, from a village churchyard, is an improvement on Young, is a question:—

Death loves a shining mark,
and
_In this case he had it_.

EPITAPH FOR A GREAT TALKER.

Hic tacet—instead of hic jacet.

IN OTSEGO COUNTY, N. Y.

John burns.

(On this a commentator remarks, “Most men suffer enough above ground
without being bunglingly abused, _post mortem_, in ill-written
inscriptions which were at least intended to be civil. We suppose the
words were simply intended to record the man’s name; but they look
marvellously like a noun substantive coupled with a verb in the
indicative mood, and affording a sad indication that John _burns_.
There is no hint that John deserved the fate to which he appears to
have been consigned since his decease, and we can only say as we read
the startling declaration, we should be very sorry to believe it.”)

In the church of Stoke Holy Cross, near Norwich, Eng., is the following epitaph:—

In the womb of this tomb twins in expectation lay,
To be born in the morn of the Resurrection day.

IN A CHURCHYARD IN CORNWALL.

Here lies the body of Gabriel John,
Who died in the year one thousand and one;
Pray for the soul of Gabriel John,
You may, if you please, or let it alone,
For it’s all one
To Gabriel John,
Who died in the year one thousand and one.

IN MORETON CHURCHYARD.

Here lies the bones of Roger Norton,
Whose sudden death was oddly brought on:
Trying one day his corns to mow off,
The razor slipt and cut his toe off!
The toe—or, rather, what it grew to—
An inflammation quickly flew to;
The part then took to mortifying,
Which was the cause of Roger’s dying.

ON A WOOD-CUTTER, OCKHAM, SURREY, 1736.

The Lord saw good, I was lopping off wood,
And down fell from the tree;
I met with a check, and I broke my neck,
And so death lopped off me.

A stone-cutter received the following epitaph from a German, to be cut upon the tombstone of his wife:—

Mine vife Susan is dead, if she had life till nex friday she’d bin
dead shust two veeks. As a tree falls so must it stan, all tings is
impossible mit God.

IN CHILDWALL PARISH, ENGLAND.

Here lies me, and my three daughters,
Brought here by using Cheltenham waters.
If we had stuck to Epsom salts
We wouldn’t be in these here vaults.

AT OXFORD, NEW HAMPSHIRE.

To all my friends I bid adieu,
A more sudden death you never knew,
As I was leading the old mare to drink,
She kicked, and killed me quicker’n a wink.

A SOUTH CAROLINA TRIBUTE TO DEPARTED WORTH.

Here lies the boddy of Robert Gordin,
Mouth almighty and teeth ackordin,
Stranger tread lightly over this wonder,
If he opens his mouth, you are gone by thunder.

ON AN EAST TENNESSEE LADY.

She lived a life of virtue, and died of the cholera morbus, caused by
eating green fruit, in hope of a blessed immortality, at the early age
of 21 years, 7 months and 16 days! Reader, ‘Go thou and do likewise.’

FROM SOLYHULL CHURCHYARD, WARWICKSHIRE.

The following epitaph was written by a certain Rev. Dr. Greenwood on his wife, who died in childbirth. One hardly knows which to admire most,—the merit of the couplet wherein he celebrates her courage and magnanimity in preferring him to a lord or judge, or the sound advice with which he closes.

Go, cruel Death, thou hast cut down
The fairest Greenwood in all this kingdom!
Her virtues and good qualities were such
That surely she deserved a lord or judge;
But her piety and humility
Made her prefer me, a Doctor in Divinity;
Which heroic action, joined to all the rest,
Made her to be esteemed the Phœnix of her sex;
And like that bird, a young she did create
To comfort those her loss had made disconsolate.
My grief for her was so sore
That I can only utter two lines more:
For this and all other good women’s sake,
Never let blisters be applied to a lying-in woman’s back.

Robert Baxter of Farhouse, who died in 1796, was believed to have been poisoned by a neighbor with whom he had a violent quarrel. Baxter was well known to be a man of voracious appetite; and it seems that one morning, on going out to the fell, he found a piece of bread and butter wrapped in white paper. This he incautiously devoured, and died a few hours after in great agony. The following is inscribed on his tombstone, Knaresdale, Northumberland:—

All you that please these lines to read,
It will cause a tender heart to bleed.
I murdered was upon the fell,
And by the man I knew full well;
By bread and butter which he’d laid,
I, being harmless, was betrayed.
_I hope he will rewarded be_
That laid the poison there for me.

IN DONCASTER CHURCHYARD, 1816.

Here lies 2 Brothers by misfortin serounded,
One dy’d of his wounds & the other was drownded.

AT SARAGOSSA, SPAIN.

Here lies John Quebecca, precentor to My Lord the King. When he is
admitted to the choir of angels, whose society he will embellish, and
where he will distinguish himself by his powers of song, God shall say
to the angels, “Cease, ye calves! and let me hear John Quebecca, the
precentor of My Lord the King!”

ROCHESTER’S EPITAPH ON CHARLES II.

Here lies our sovereign lord the king,
Whose word no man relied on;
Who never said a foolish thing,
And never did a wise one.

FROM A GRAVESTONE IN ESSEX, ENGLAND.

Here lies the man Richard,
And Mary his wife,
Whose surname was Pritchard:
They lived without strife;
And the reason was plain,—
They abounded in riches,
They had no care nor pain,
_And his wife wore the breeches_.

In All Saints’ Churchyard, Leicester, may be found the following on two children of John Bracebridge, who were both named John and both died in infancy:—

Both John and John soon lost their lives,
And yet, by God, John still survives.

Bishop Thurlow, at one of his visitations, had the words _by God_ altered to _through God_.

FROM THETFORD CHURCHYARD.

My grandfather was buried here,
My cousin Jane, and two uncles dear;
My father perished with inflammation in the thighs,
And my sister dropped down dead in the Minories:
But the reason why I’m here interred, according to my thinking,
Is owing to my good living and hard drinking.
If, therefore, good Christians, you wish to live long,
Don’t drink too much wine, brandy, gin, or any thing strong.

IN A CHURCHYARD IN ABERDEEN, SCOTLAND.

Here lies I, Martin Elmrod;
Have mercy on my soul, gude God,
As I would have on thine gin I were God,
And thou wert Martin Elmrod.

IN SWANSEA CHURCHYARD.

The body underneath this stone is
Of my late husband, Jacob Jonas,
Who, when alive, was an Adonis.
Ah! well-a-day!

O death! thou spoiler of fair faces,
Why tookst thou him from my embraces?
How couldst thou mar so many graces?
Say, tyrant, say.

AT NORTHALLERTON.

Hic jacet Walter Gun,
Sometime landlord of the _Sun_;
_Sic transit gloria mundi_!
He drank hard upon Friday,
That being a high day,
Then took to his bed, and died upon Sunday.

ALL SAINTS, NEWCASTLE.

Here lies poor Wallace,
The prince of good fellows,
Clerk of Allhallows,
And maker of bellows.
He bellows did make till the day of his death;
But he that made bellows could never make breath.

IN CALSTOCK CHURCHYARD, CORNWALL.

’Twas by a fall I caught my death;
No man can tell his time or breath;
I might have died as soon as then,
If I had had physician men.

ON GENERAL WOLFE.

On the death of General Wolfe, a premium was offered for the best epitaph on that officer. One of the candidates for the prize sent a poem, of which the following stanza is a specimen:—

He marched without dread or fears,
At the head of his bold grenadiers;
And what was more remarkable—nay, _very particular_—
He climbed up rocks that were perpendicular.

§REBECCA ROGERS, FOLKESTONE§, 1688.

A house she hath, ’tis made of such good fashion,
The tenant ne’er shall pay for reparation;
Nor will her landlord ever raise her rent,
Or turn her out of doors for non-payment:
From chimney-tax this cell’s forever free,—
To such a house, who would not tenant be?

IN DORCHESTER, MASS.
1661.

Heare lyes our captaine, and major of Suffolk was withall, A godly magistrate was he, and major generall. Two troops of hors with him here came, such worth his love did crave, Ten companyes of foot also mourning marcht to his grave. Let all that read be sure to keep the faith as he hath don; With Christ he lives now crownd. His name was Humphry Atherton.

IN KNIGHTSBRIDGE CHURCHYARD.

On a man who was too poor to be buried with relations in the church:—

Here I lie at the chancel door,
And I lie here because I am poor;
For the further in, the more you pay,—
But here I lie as warm as they.

IN BIDEFORD CHURCHYARD, KENT.

The wedding-day appointed was,
And wedding-clothes provided,
But ere the day did come, alas!
He sickened, and he die did.

IN WHITTLEBURY CHURCHYARD, NORTHAMPTONSHIRE.

John Heath, 1767, æt. 27.
While Time doth run, from sin depart;
Let none e’er shun Death’s piercing dart;
For read and look, and you will see
A wondrous change was wrought on me.
For while I lived in joy and mirth,
Grim Death came in and stopped my breath;
For I was single in the morning light,
By noon was married, and was dead at night.

IN LONGNOR CHURCHYARD, STAFFORD.

William Billings, a soldier in the British army 75 years,
Died 1793, aged 114 years.
Billeted by death, I quartered here remain,
And when the trumpet sounds, I’ll rise and march again.

IN ROCHESTER CHURCHYARD, ENG.

Though young she was,
Her youth could not withstand,
Nor her protect
From Death’s impartial hand.
Life is a cobweb, be we e’er so gay,
And death a broom that sweeps us all away.

HUMPHREY COLE.

Here lies the body of good Humphrey Cole;
Though black his name, yet spotless is his soul;
But yet not black, though Carbo is the name,
Thy chalk is scarcely whiter than his fame.
A priest of priests, inferior was to none,
Took heaven by storm when here his race was run.
Thus ends the record of this pious man:
Go and do likewise, reader, if you can.

IN EAST HARTFORD, CONN.

Now she is dead and cannot stir;
Her cheeks are like the faded rose;
Which of us next shall follow her,
The Lord Almighty only knows.

Hark, she bids all her friends adieu;
An angel calls her to the spheres;
Our eyes the radiant saint pursue
Through liquid telescopes of tears.

ON A TOMBSTONE IN NEW JERSEY.

Reader, pass on!—don’t waste your time
On bad biography and bitter rhyme;
For what _I am_, this crumbling clay insures,
And what _I was_, is no affair of yours!

IN A NEW ENGLAND GRAVEYARD.

Here lies John Auricular,
Who in the ways of the Lord walked perpendicular.

* * * * *

Many a cold wind o’er my body shall roll,
While in Abraham’s bosom I’m a feasting my soul.

AT AUGUSTA, MAINE.

—After Life’s _Scarlet Fever_,
I sleep well.

The following illustrated epitaph is copied from a tombstone near Williamsport, Pa.

Sacred to the memory of
§Henry Harris§,
Born June 27th, 1821, of Henry Harris
and Jane his wife.
Died on the 4th of May, 1837, by the kick of a colt
in his bowels.
Peaceable and quiet, a friend to
his father and mother, and respected
by all who knew him, and went
to the world where horses
don’t kick, where sorrows and weeping
is no more.

In Dorchester, Mass. may be seen the following queer epitaph on a young woman:—

On the 21st of March
God’s angels made a _sarche_.
Around the door they stood;
They took a maid,
It is said,
And cut her down like wood.

A Dutchman’s epitaph on his twin babes:—

Here lies two babes, dead as two nits,
Who shook to death mit aguey fits.
They was too good to live mit me,
So God he took ’em to live mit he.

MORTUARY PUNS.

Peter Comestor, whom the following epitaph represents as speaking, was the author of a Commentary on the Scriptures. He died in 1198:—

I who was once called _Peter_ [a stone], am now covered by a _stone_
[_petra_]; and I who was once named _Comestor_ [devourer], am now
_devoured_. I taught when alive, nor do I cease to teach, though dead;
for he who beholds me reduced to ashes may say,—“This man was once
what we are now; and what he is now, we soon shall be.”

ON A YOUTH WHO DIED FOR LOVE OF MOLLY STONE.

Molle fuit saxum, saxum, O! si Molle fuisset,
Non foret hic subter, sed super esset ei.

Luttrell wrote the following on a man who was run over by an omnibus:—

Killed by an omnibus! Why not?
So quick a death a boon is:
Let not his friends lament his lot—
_Mors omnibus communis_.

WILLIAM MORE, STEPNEY CHURCHYARD.

Here lies _one More_, and _no more_ than he;
_One More_, and _no more_! how can that be?
Why _one More_ and _no more_, may lie here alone;
But here lies _one More_, and that’s _more_ than one!

On the tombstone of John Fell, superintendent of the turnpike-roads from Kirby Kendal to Kirby Irleth, are the following lines:—

Reader, doth he not merit well thy praise,
Whose practice was through life to _mend his ways_?

IN SELBY CHURCHYARD, YORK.

This tombstone is a Milestone; ha, how so?
Because, beneath lies _Miles_, who’s Miles below.

ON DU BOIS, BORN IN A BAGGAGE-WAGON, AND KILLED IN A DUEL.

Begot in a cart, in a cart first drew breath,
Carte tierce was his life, and a carte was his death,

ON LILL.

Here lies the tongue of Godfrey Lill,
Which always lied, and _lies here still_.

On the tombstone of Dr. Walker, who wrote a work on “English Particles,” is inscribed,—

Here lies Walker’s Particles.

Dr. Fuller’s reads,—

Here lies Fuller’s Earth.

And Archbishop Potter’s,—

Alack and well-a-day,
Potter himself is turned to clay.

Proposed by Jerrold for Charles Knight, the Shakspearian critic:—

Good Knight.

On a well-known Shakspearian actor:—

Exit Burbage.

On the tomb of an auctioneer at Greenwood:—

Going,—going,—§GONE§!

Miss Long was a beautiful actress of the last century, so short in stature that she was called the Pocket Venus. Her epitaph concludes,—

Though Long, yet short;
Though short, yet _Pretty_ Long.

On the eminent barrister, Sir John Strange:—

Here lies an honest lawyer—that is _Strange_.

On William Button, in a churchyard near Salisbury:—

O sun, moon, stars, and ye celestial poles!
Are graves, then, dwindled into Button-holes?

On Foote, the comedian:—

Foote from his earthly stage, alas! is hurled;
Death took him off, who took off all the world.

In the chancel of the church of Barrow-on-Soar, Leicestershire, is the following on Theophilus Cave:—

Here in this Grave there lies a Cave.
We call a Grave a Cave;
If Cave be Grave, and Grave be Cave,
Then, reader, judge, I crave,
Whether doth Cave here lye in Grave,
Or Grave here lye in Cave:
If Grave in Cave here bury’d lye,
Then Grave, where is thy victory?
Goe, reader, and report here lyes a Cave,
Who conquers Death and buries his own Grave.

The following, in Harrow Churchyard, is ascribed to Lord Byron:—

Beneath these green trees rising to the skies,
The planter of them, Isaac Greentree, lies;
A time shall come when these green trees shall fall,
And Isaac Greentree rise above them all.

ON THOMAS GREENHILL, OXFORDSHIRE, 1624.

He once a _Hill_ was fresh and _Green_,
Now withered is not to be seen;
Earth in earth shovelled up is shut,
A _Hill_ into a _Hole_ is put;
But darksome earth by Power Divine,
Bright at last as the sun may shine.

ON A CORONER WHO HANGED HIMSELF.

He lived and died
By _suicide_.

ON A CELEBRATED COOK.

Peace to his hashes.

ON MR. FISH.

Worms bait for fish; but here’s a sudden change;
Fish is bait for worms—is not that passing strange?

ON TWO CHILDREN.

To the memory of Emma and Maria Littleboy,
the twin-children of
George and Emma Littleboy of Hornsey,
who died July 16, 1783.

Two little boys lie here,
Yet strange to say,
These little boys are girls.

ON MISS NOTT.

Nott born, Nott dead, Nott christened, Nott begot;
So here she lies that was and that was Nott.
Reader behold a wonder rarely wrought,
Which while thou seem’st to read thou readest Nott.

ON MARY ANGEL, STEPNEY, 1693.

To say an angel here interred doth lie,
May be thought strange, for angels never die;
Indeed some fell from heaven to hell,
Are lost to rise no more;
This only fell from death to earth,
Not lost but gone before;
Her dust lodged here, her soul perfect in grace,
Among saints and angels now hath took its place.

Beloe, in his Anecdotes, gives the following on William Lawes, the musical composer, who was killed by the Roundheads:—

Concord is conquered! In his turn there lies
The master of great Music’s mysteries;
And in it is a riddle, like the cause,
Will Lawes was slain by men whose _Wills_ were Laws.

ON MR. JOSEPH KING.

Here lies a man than whom no better’s _wal-king_,
Who was when sleeping even always _tal-king_;
A _king_ by birth was he, and yet was no king,
In life was _thin-king_, and in death was §Jo-King§.

_On John Adams, of Southwell, a carrier, who died of
drunkenness._—§Byron.§

John Adams lies here, of the parish of Southwell,
A _carrier_ who carried the can to his mouth well;
He carried so much, and he carried so fast,
He could carry no more,—so was carried at last;
For the liquor he drank being too much for one,
He could not carry off, so he’s now carri-on.

ON A LINEN-DRAPER.

Cottons and cambrics, all adieu,
And muslins too, farewell,
Plain, striped, and figured, old and new,
Three quarters, yard, or ell;
By nail and yard I’ve measured ye,
As customers inclined,
The churchyard now has measured me.
And nails my coffin bind.

ON A WOMAN WHO HAD AN ISSUE IN HER LEG.

Here lieth Margaret, otherwise Meg,
Who died without issue, save one in her leg.
Strange woman was she, and exceedingly cunning,
For while one leg stood still, the other kept running.

FROM LLANFLANTWYTHYL CHURCHYARD, WALES.

Under this stone lies Meredith Morgan,
Who blew the bellows of our church-organ;
Tobacco he hated, to smoke most unwilling,
Yet never so pleased as when pipes he was filling;
No reflection on him for rude speech could be cast,
Though he made our old organ give many a blast.
No puffer was he, though a capital blower,
He could fill double G, and now lies a note lower.

ON A LAST-MAKER.

Stop, stranger, stop, and wipe a tear,
For the _last_ man at _last_ lies here.
Though ever-_last_-ing he has been,
He has at _last_ passed life’s _last_ scene.
Famed for good works, much time he passed
In doing good,—he has done his _last_.

FROM ST. ANNE’S CHURCHYARD, ISLE OF MAN.

Daniel Tear, ob. Dec. 7, 1787, æt. 110 years.
Here, friend, is little Daniel’s tomb;
To Joseph’s age he did arrive,
Sloth killing thousands in their bloom,
While labor kept poor Dan alive.
Though strange, yet true, full seventy years
His wife was happy in her _Tears_.

In the Greek Anthology is a punning epitaph on a physician, by Empedocles, who lived in the fifth century before Christ. The pun consists in the derivation of the name _Pausanias_,—causing a cessation of pain or affliction,—and therefore only a portion of the double meaning can be preserved in a translation:—

_Paus_anias,—not so named without a cause,
As one who oft has given to pain a _pause_,—
Blest son of Esculapius, good and wise,
Here in his native Gela buried lies;
Who many a wretch once rescued by his charms
From dark Persephone’s constraining arms.

CURIOUS AND PUZZLING EPITAPHS.

On the monument of Sardanapalus was inscribed, in Assyrian characters,—

ΕΣΤΗΙΕ, ΠΙΝΕ, ΠΑΙΖΕ. ὩΣ ΤΑΛΛΑ ΤΟΥΤΟΥ ΟΥΚ ΑΞΙΑ

EAT, DRINK, BE MERRY. THE REST IS NOT WORTH THAT!

meaning _a snap of the fingers_, which is represented by a hand engraved on the stone, with the thumb and middle finger meeting at the top. Casaubon translates παιζειν, _to love_ (παιζειν nihil aliud significat nisi ερᾶν). Solomon said, _all is vanity_, but not till he had _eaten, drunk, and loved_ to a surfeit; and Swift left the well-known lines,—

Life’s a farce, and all things show it,
I thought so once, but now I know it,—

but this information was for the tomb, when the capacity to eat, drink, and love was gone.

* * * * *

At the entrance of the church of San Salvador, in the city of Oviedo, in Spain, is a remarkable tomb, erected by a prince named _Silo_, with a very curious Latin inscription, which may be read two hundred and seventy ways, by beginning with the capital S in the centre:—

§Silo Princeps Fecit.§

T I C E F S P E C N C E P S F E C I T
I O E F S P E C N I N C E P S F E C I
C E F S P E C N I R I N C E P C F E C
E F S P E C N I R P R I N C E P S F E
F S P E C N I R P O P R I N C E P S F
S P E C N I R P O L O P R I N C E P S
P E C N I R P O L I L O P R I N C E P
E C N I R P O L I =S= I L O P R I N C E
P E C N I R P O L I L O P R I N C E P
S P E C N I R P O L O P R I N C E P S
F S P E C N I R P O P R I N C E P S F
E F S P E C N I R P R I N C E P S F E
C E F S P E C N I R I N C E P S F E C
I C E F S P E C N I N C E P S F E C I
T I C E F S P E C N C E P S F E C I T

On the tomb are inscribed these letters:—

H. S. E. S. S. T. T. L.

Which are the initials of the following Latin words:—

Hic situs est Silo, sit tibi terra levis.
[Here lies Silo. May the earth lie lightly upon him.]

FROM ST. AGNES’, LONDON.

Qu an tris di c vul stra
os guis ti ro um nere vit.
H san chris mi t mu la

The middle line furnishes the terminal letters or syllables of the words in the upper and lower lines, and when added they read thus:—

Quos anguis tristi diro cum vulnere stravit
Hos sanguis Christi miro tum munere lavit.
[Those who have felt the serpent’s venomed wound
In Christ’s miraculous blood have healing found.]

FROM A CHURCHYARD IN GERMANY.

O quid tua te
be bis bia abit
ra ra ra
es
et in
ram ram ram
i i
Mox eris quod ego nunc.

Taking the position of the words in the first line, which are placed _above_ or _over_ (super) those in the second, and noting the repetition of the syllables _ra_ and _ram_ thrice (ter), and the letter _i_ twice (bis), the reading is easy.

O _super_be quid _super_bis? tua _super_bia te _super_abit. _Ter_ra es et in _ter_ram i_bis_. Mox eris quod ego nunc.

FROM CUNWALLOW CHURCHYARD, CORNWALL.

(May be read backwards or forwards, up or down.)

Shall we all die?
We shall die all,
All die shall we,—
Die all we shall.

FROM LAVENHAM CHURCH, NORFOLK, ENG.

John Weles, ob. 1694.
Quod fuit esse, quod est;
Quod non fuit esse, quod esse;
Esse quod est, non est;
Quod non est, hoc erit esse.

[What was existence, is that which lies here; that which was not
existence, is that which is existence; to be what is now is not to be;
that which is now, is not existence, but will be hereafter.]

Or thus:—

That which a being was, what is it? show;
That being which it was, it is not now;
To be what is, is not to be, you see;
That which now is not shall a being be.

ON THE MONUMENT OF JOHN OF DONCASTER, 1579.

Habeo, dedi quod alteri;
Habuique quod, dedi mihi;
Sed quod reliqui, perdidi.

[What I gave, I have;
What I spent, I had;
What I saved, I lost.]

IN THE CHURCHYARD OF LLANGERRIG, MONTGOMERYSHIRE.

O } { O } { observe this well,—
That } Earth { to } Earth { shall come to dwell;
Then } { in } { shall close remain,
Till } { from } { shall rise again.

IN HADLEY CHURCHYARD, SUFFOLK.

The charnel mounted on the w }
Sets to be seen in funer }
A matron plain domestic }
In care and pain continu }
Not slow, not gay, not prodig } §ALL§.
Yet neighborly and hospit }
Her children seven, yet living }
Her sixty-seventh year hence did c }
To rest her body natur }
In hopes to rise spiritu }

WRITTEN IN 1748.