Gleanings in Graveyards Part 37

On a Juggler.

Death came to see thy tricks, and cut in twain Thy thread. Why did'st not make it whole again?

To a Magistrate's Widow.

Her husband died, and while she tried To live behind, could not, and died.

Epitaph on the Parson of a parish.

Come let us rejoice merry boys at his fall, For egad, had he lived he'd a buried us all.

On a Baker.

Richard Fuller lies buried here, Do not withhold the crystal tear, For when he liv'd he daily fed Woman and man and child with bread.

But now alas he's turned to dust, As thou and I and all soon must, And lies beneath this turf so green, Where worms do daily feed on him.

An Original.

Here lies fast asleep, awake me who can, The medley of pa.s.sion and follies, a Man Who sometimes lov'd licence and sometimes restraint, Too much of the sinner, too little of saint; From quarter to quarter I shifted my tack; Gainst the evils of life a most notable quack; But, alas! I soon found the defects of my skill, And my nostrums in practice proved treacherous still; From life's certain ills 'twas in vain to seek ease, The remedy oft proved another disease; What in rapture began often ended in sorrow, And the pleasure to-day brought reflection to-morrow; When each action was o'er and its errors were seen, Then I viewed with surprise the strange thing I had been; My body and mind were so oddly contrived, That at each other's failing both parties conniv'd, Imprudence of mind brought on sickness and pain, The body diseas'd paid the debt back again.

Thus coupled together life's journey they pa.s.s'd, Till they wrangled and jangled and parted at last; Thus tired and weary, I've finished my course, And glad it is bed time, and things are no worse.

On a Publican.

Thomas Thompson's buried here, And what is more he's in his bier, In life thy bier did thee surround, And now with thee is in the ground.

On a Porter, who died suddenly under a load.

Pack'd up within these dark abodes, Lies one in life inur'd to loads, Which oft he carried 'tis well known, Till Death pa.s.s'd by and threw him down.

When he that carried loads before, Became a load which others bore To this his inn, where, as they say, They leave him till another day.

On a Publican.

A jolly landlord once was I, And kept the Old King's Head hard by, Sold mead and gin, cider and beer, And eke all other kinds of cheer, Till death my license took away And put me in this house of clay, A house at which you all must call, Sooner or later, great and small.

On a Parish Clerk.

Here lies, within this tomb so calm, Old Giles, pray sound his knell, Who thought no song was like a psalm, No music like a bell.

Here lies John Adams, who received a thump Right in the forehead from the parish pump, Which gave him his quietus in the end, Tho' many doctors did his case attend.

On Mr. c.u.mming.

"Give me the best of men," said Death To Nature-"quick, no humming,"

She sought the man who lies beneath, And answered, "Death, he's c.u.mming."

On Sir Philip Sidney.

_England_ hath his body, for she it fed, _Netherland_ his blood, in her defence shed; The _Heavens_ hath his soul, The _Arts_ have his fame, The _Soldier_ his grief, The _World_ his good name.

There is a touching sorrow conveyed in the following most ungrammatical verses; evidently composed by one of the unlettered parents themselves:-

Beneath this stone his own dear child, Whose gone from we For ever more unto eternity; Where we do hope that we shall go to he, But him can never more come back to we.

On a Chemist.

Here lyeth, to digest, macerate, and amalgamate With Clay, In Balneo Arenae Stratum super Stratum, The Residuum, Terra d.a.m.nata, and Caput Mortuum Of Boyle G.o.dfry, Chemist And M.D.

A man, who in his earthly Laboratory Pursued various Processes to obtain Areanum Vitae Or the secret to live; Also Aurum Vitae, Or, the art of getting, rather than making Gold.

Alchemist like, All his Labour and Profection, As Mercury in the Fire evaporated in Fuomo When he dissolv'd to his first Principles, He departed as poor As the last Drops of an Alembic; For riches are not poured On the Adepts of this world.

Though fond of News, he carefully avoided The Fermentation, Effervescence, And Decrepitation of this Life.

Full Seventy years his exalted Essence Was Hermetically sealed in its Terene Mattras, But the radical Moisture being exhausted, The Elixir Vitae spent, And exsiccated to a Cuticle, He could not suspend longer in his Vehicle But precipitated Gradatim Per Campanam.

To his Original Dust.

May that light, brighter than Bolognian Phosphorus, Preserve him from the Athanor, Empyremna, & Of the other World.

Depurate him from the Taces and Scoria of this; Highly Rectify'd & Volatize His aetheral Spirit, Bring it over the Helm of the Retort of this Globe, place it in a proper Recipient, Or Chrystalline Orb, Among the elect of the Flowers of Benjamin, Never to be Saturated, Till the General Resuscitation, Deflagration, Calcination, And Sublimation of all Things.

On Mr. Partridge, who died in May.

What! kill a partridge in the month of May!

Was that done like a sportsman? Eh, Death, Eh?