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EPIGRAMS AND EPITAPHS - Alexander Pope, The Complete Poetical Works of Alexander Pope [1903]

Edition used:

The Complete Poetical Works of Alexander Pope. Cambridge Edition, ed. Henry W. Boynton (Boston and New York: Houghton, Mifflin and Co., 1903).

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EPIGRAMS AND EPITAPHS

ON A PICTURE OF QUEEN CAROLINE

DRAWN BY LADY BURLINGTON

It is not known who the Bishop was. The ‘lying Dean’ refers to Dr. Alured Clarke, who preached a fulsome sermon upon the Queen’s death.

  • Peace, flatt’ring Bishop! lying Dean!
  • This portrait only paints the Queen!

EPIGRAM ENGRAVED ON THE COLLAR OF A DOG WHICH I GAVE TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS

  • ‘His Highness’ was Frederick, Prince of Wales.
  • I am his Highness’ dog at Kew;
  • Pray tell me, Sir, whose dog are you?

LINES WRITTEN IN EVELYN’S BOOK ON COINS

First printed in the Gentleman’s Magazine in 1735.

  • Tom Wood of Chiswick, deep divine,
  • To Painter Kent gave all this coin.
  • ’T is the first coin, I ’m bold to say,
  • That ever churchman gave to lay.

FROM THE GRUB-STREET JOURNAL

This Journal was established in January, 1730, and carried on for eight years by Pope and his friends, in answer to the attacks provoked by the Dunciad. It corresponds in some measure to the Xenien of Goethe and Schiller. Only such pieces are here inserted as bear Pope’s distinguishing signature A.; several others are probably his. (Ward.)

I

EPIGRAM

Occasioned by seeing some sheets of Dr. Bentley’s edition of Milton’s Paradise Lost.

  • Did Milton’s prose, O Charles, thy death defend?
  • A furious Foe unconscious proves a Friend.
  • On Milton’s verse does Bentley comment?—Know
  • A weak officious Friend becomes a Foe.
  • While he but sought his Author’s fame to further,
  • The murd’rous critic has avenged thy murder.

II

EPIGRAM

  • Should D[enni]s print, how once you robb’d your brother,
  • Traduced your monarch, and debauch’d your mother;
  • Say, what revenge on D[enni]s can be had;
  • Too dull for laughter, for reply too mad?
  • Of one so poor you cannot take the law;
  • On one so old your sword you scorn to draw.
  • Uncaged then let the harmless monster rage,
  • Secure in dulness, madness, want, and age.

III

MR. J. M. S[MYTH]E

CATECHISED ON HIS ONE EPISTLE TO MR. POPE

  • What makes you write at this odd rate?
  • Why, Sir, it is to imitate.
  • What makes you steal and trifle so?
  • Why, ’t is to do as others do.
  • But there ’s no meaning to be seen.
  • Why, that ’s the very thing I mean.

IV

EPIGRAM

ON MR. M[OO]RE’S GOING TO LAW WITH MR. GILIVER: INSCRIBED TO ATTORNEY TIBBALD

  • Once in his life M[oo]re judges right:
  • His sword and pen not worth a straw,
  • An author that could never write,
  • A gentleman that dares not fight,
  • Has but one way to tease—by law.
  • This suit, dear Tibbald, kindly hatch;
  • Thus thou may’st help the sneaking elf;
  • And sure a printer is his match,
  • Who ’s but a publisher himself.

V

EPIGRAM

  • A gold watch found on cinder whore,
  • Or a good verse on J[emm]y M[oor]e,
  • Proves but what either should conceal,
  • Not that they’re rich, but that they steal.

VI

EPITAPH

ON JAMES MOORE-SMYTHE

  • Here lies what had nor birth, nor shape, nor fame;
  • No gentleman! no man! no-thing! no name!
  • For Jamie ne’er grew James; and what they call
  • More, shrunk to Smith—and Smith ’s no name at all.
  • Yet die thou can’st not, phantom, oddly fated:
  • For how can no-thing be annihilated?

VII

A QUESTION BY ANONYMOUS

  • Tell, if you can, which did the worse,
  • Caligula or Gr[afto]n’s Gr[a]ce?
  • That made a Consul of a horse,
  • And this a Laureate of an ass.

VIII

EPIGRAM

The sting of this epigram was for Cibber, then Poet Laureate.

  • Great G[eorge] such servants since thou well canst lack,
  • Oh! save the salary, and drink the sack.

IX

EPIGRAM

  • Behold! ambitious of the British bays,
  • Cibber and Duck contend in rival lays,
  • But, gentle Colley, should thy verse prevail,
  • Thou hast no fence, alas! against his flail:
  • Therefore thy claim resign, allow his right:
  • For Duck can thresh, you know, as well as write.

EPITAPHS

His saltem accumulem donis, et fungar inani Munere!

Virg. [Æn. vii. 885.]

ON CHARLES EARL OF DORSET

IN THE CHURCH OF WITHYAM, SUSSEX

  • Dorset, the Grace of Courts, the Muses’ Pride,
  • Patron of Arts, and Judge of Nature, died.
  • The scourge of Pride, tho’ sanctified or great,
  • Of Fops in Learning, and of Knaves in State:
  • Yet soft his Nature, tho’ 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.
  • Bless’d Courtier! who could King and Country please,
  • Yet sacred keep his Friendships and his Ease.
  • Bless’d Peer! his great Forefathers’ ev’ry grace
  • Reflecting, and reflected in his race;
  • Where other Buckhursts, other Dorsets shine,
  • And Patriots still, or Poets, deck the line.

ON SIR WILLIAM TRUMBULL

ONE OF THE PRINCIPAL SECRETARIES OF STATE TO KING WILLIAM III

Who, having resigned his Place, died in his retirement at Easthamsted, in Berkshire, 1716.

  • A pleasing Form, a firm, yet cautious Mind;
  • Sincere, tho’ prudent; constant, yet resign’d:
  • Honour unchanged, a Principle profest,
  • Fix’d to one side, but mod’rate to the rest:
  • An honest Courtier, yet a Patriot too,
  • Just to his Prince, and to his Country true:
  • Fill’d with the Sense of age, the Fire of youth,
  • A scorn of Wrangling, yet a zeal for Truth;
  • A gen’rous Faith, from superstition free,
  • A love to Peace, and hate of Tyranny;
  • Such this Man was, who now, from earth remov’d,
  • At length enjoys that Liberty he lov’d.

ON THE HON. SIMON HARCOURT

ONLY SON OF THE LORD CHANCELLOR HARCOURT

At the Church of Stanton-Harcourt, Oxfordshire, 1720.

  • To this sad shrine, whoe’er thou art, draw near;
  • Here lies the Friend most lov’d, the Son most dear;
  • Who ne’er knew Joy but Friendship might divide,
  • Or gave his father grief but when he died.
  • How vain is Reason, Eloquence how weak!
  • If Pope must tell what Harcourt cannot speak.
  • Oh, let thy once-lov’d friend inscribe thy stone,
  • And with a father’s sorrows mix his own!

ON JAMES CRAGGS, ESQ.

IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY

JACOBUS CRAGGS

REGI MAGNÆ BRITANNIÆ A SECRETIS, ET CONSILIIS SANCTIORIBUS: PRINCIPIS PARITER AC POPULI AMOR ET DELICIÆ: VIXIT TITULIS ET INVIDIA MAJOR ANNOS, HEU PAUCOS, XXXV. OB. FEB. XIV. MDCCXX.

  • Statesman, yet Friend to Truth! of Soul sincere,
  • In Action faithful, and in Honour clear!
  • Who broke no Promise, served no private end,
  • Who gain’d no Title, and who lost no Friend;
  • Ennobled by himself, by all approv’d,
  • Prais’d, wept, and honour’d, by the Muse he lov’d.

ON MR. ROWE

IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY

    • Thy reliques, Rowe! to this sad shrine we trust,
    • And near thy Shakspeare place thy honour’d bust,
    • Oh, next him, skill’d to draw the tender tear—
    • For never heart felt passion more sincere—
    • To nobler sentiment to fire the brave—
    • For never Briton more disdain’d a slave!
    • Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest;
    • Blest in thy Genius, in thy Love too blest!
    • And blest, that timely from our scene remov’d,
    • Thy soul enjoys the Liberty it lov’d.
    • To these, so mourn’d in death, so lov’d in life,
    • The childless parent and the widow’d wife
    • With tears inscribes this monumental stone,
    • That holds their ashes and expects her own.

ON MRS. CORBET

WHO DIED OF A CANCER IN HER BREAST

  • Here rests a Woman, good without pretence,
  • Bless’d with plain Reason and with sober Sense:
  • No Conquests she but o’er herself desired,
  • No Arts essay’d but not to be admired.
  • Passion and Pride were to her soul unknown,
  • Convinc’d that Virtue only is our own.
  • So unaffected, so composed, a mind,
  • So firm, yet soft, so strong, yet so refin’d,
  • Heav’n, as its purest gold, by Tortures tried:
  • The Saint sustain’d it, but the Woman died.

ON THE MONUMENT OF THE HON. R. DIGBY AND OF HIS SISTER MARY

ERECTED BY THEIR FATHER, LORD DIGBY, IN THE CHURCH OF SHERBORNE, IN DORSETSHIRE, 1727.

    • Go! fair example of untainted youth,
    • Of modest Wisdom and pacific Truth:
    • Composed in Suff’rings, and in Joy sedate,
    • Good without noise, without pretension great:
    • Just of thy word, in ev’ry thought sincere,
    • Who knew no wish but what the world might hear:
    • Of softest Manners, unaffected Mind,
    • Lover of Peace, and Friend of humankind!
    • Go live! for Heav’n’s eternal year is thine;
    • Go, and exalt thy Mortal to Divine.
    • And thou, bless’d Maid! attendant on his doom,
    • Pensive hath follow’d to the silent Tomb,
    • Steer’d the same course to the same quiet shore,
    • Not parted long, and now to part no more!
    • Go then, where only bliss sincere is known!
    • Go where to love and to enjoy are one!
    • Yet take these tears, mortality’s relief,
    • And till we share your joys, forgive our grief:
    • These little rites, a Stone, a Verse, receive;
    • ’T is all a Father, all a Friend can give!

ON SIR GODFREY KNELLER

IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY, 1723

    • Kneller, by Heav’n, and not a master, taught,
    • Whose Art was Nature, and whose pictures thought;
    • Now for two ages having snatch’d from fate
    • Whate’er was beauteous, or whate’er was great,
    • Lies crown’d with Princes’ honours, Poets’ lays,
    • Due to his Merit and brave thirst of Praise.
    • Living, great Nature fear’d he might outvie
    • Her works; and, dying, fears herself may die.

ON GENERAL HENRY WITHERS

IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY, 1729

    • Here, Withers! rest; thou bravest, gentlest mind,
    • Thy Country’s friend, but more of Humankind.
    • O born to Arms! O Worth in youth approv’d!
    • O soft Humanity, in age belov’d!
    • For thee the hardy Vet’ran drops a tear,
    • And the gay Courtier feels the sigh sincere.
    • Withers, adieu! yet not with thee remove
    • Thy martial spirit or thy social love!
    • Amidst Corruption, Luxury, and Rage,
    • Still leave some ancient Virtues to our age;
    • Nor let us say (those English glories gone)
    • The last true Briton lies beneath this stone.

ON MR. ELIJAH FENTON

AT EASTHAMSTEAD, BERKS, 1729

  • This modest stone, what few vain marbles can,
  • May truly say, Here lies an Honest Man;
  • A Poet bless’d beyond the Poet’s fate,
  • Whom Heav’n kept sacred from the proud and great;
  • Foe to loud Praise, and friend to learned Ease,
  • Content with Science in the vale of peace.
  • Calmly he look’d on either life, and here
  • Saw nothing to regret, or there to fear;
  • From Nature’s temp’rate feast rose satisfied,
  • Thank’d Heav’n that he had lived, and that he died.

ON MR. GAY

IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY, 1730

  • Of Manners gentle, of Affections mild;
  • In Wit a man; Simplicity a child:
  • With native Humour temp’ring virtuous Rage,
  • Form’d to delight at once and lash the age:
  • Above temptation, in a low estate,
  • And uncorrupted ev’n among the Great:
  • A safe Companion, and an easy Friend,
  • Unblamed thro’ life, lamented in thy End.
  • These are thy Honours! not that here thy bust
  • Is mix’d with Heroes, or with Kings thy dust:
  • But that the Worthy and the Good shall say,
  • Striking their pensive bosoms—‘Here lies Gay!’

INTENDED FOR SIR ISAAC NEWTON

IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY

ISAACUS NEWTONUS

QUEM IMMORTALEM TESTANTUR TEMPUS, NATURA, CŒLUM: MORTALEM HOC MARMOR FATETUR

  • Nature and Nature’s laws lay hid in Night:
  • God said, LetNewtonbe! and all was Light.

ON DR. FRANCIS ATTERBURY

BISHOP OF ROCHESTER, WHO DIED IN EXILE AT PARIS, 1732

His only daughter having expired in his arms immediately after she arrived in France to see him.

DIALOGUE

    • She.Yes, we have liv’d—One pang, and then we part!
    • May Heav’n, dear Father! now have all thy heart.
    • Yet ah! how once we lov’d, remember still,
    • Till you are dust like me.
    • He. Dear Shade! I will:
    • Then mix this dust with thine—O spotless Ghost!
    • O more than Fortune, Friends, or Country lost!
    • Is there on earth one care, one wish beside?
    • Yes—‘Save my country, Heav’n!’ he said, and died.

ON EDMUND DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM

WHO DIED IN THE NINETEENTH YEAR OF HIS AGE, 1735

  • If modest Youth, with cool Reflection crown’d,
  • And ev’ry 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 approv’d;
  • The Senate heard him, and his country lov’d.
  • 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 giv’n,
  • Pays the last tribute of a Saint to Heav’n.

FOR ONE WHO WOULD NOT BE BURIED IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY

  • Heroes and Kings! your distance keep;
  • In peace let one poor Poet sleep,
  • Who never flatter’d folks like you:
  • Let Horace blush, and Virgil too.

ANOTHER ON THE SAME

  • Under this Marble, or under this Sill,
  • Or under this Turf, or ev’n what they will,
  • Whatever an Heir, or a Friend in his stead,
  • Or any good creature shall lay o’er my head,
  • Lies one who ne’er cared, and still cares not, a pin
  • What they said, or may say, of the mortal within;
  • But who, living and dying, serene, still and free,
  • Trusts in God that as well as he was he shall be.

ON TWO LOVERS STRUCK DEAD BY LIGHTNING

John Hughes and Sarah Drew. See Pope’s letter to Lady Mary written in September, 1718.

  • I

  • When Eastern lovers feed the Funeral Fire,
  • On the same pile their faithful Fair expire;
  • Here pitying Heav’n that Virtue mutual found,
  • And blasted both, that it might neither wound.
  • Hearts so sincere th’ Almighty saw well pleas’d,
  • Sent his own lightning, and the victims seiz’d.

  • II

  • Think not by rig’rous judgment seiz’d,
  • A pair so faithful could expire;
  • Victims so pure Heav’n saw well pleas’d,
  • And snatch’d them in celestial fire.

  • III

  • Live well, and fear no sudden fate:
  • When God calls Virtue to the grave,
  • Alike ’t is Justice, soon or late,
  • Mercy alike to kill or save.
  • Virtue unmov’d can hear the call,
  • And face the flash that melts the ball.

EPITAPH

The subject is supposed to be John Gay.

  • Well, then, poor G— lies underground!
  • So there ’s an end of honest Jack—
  • So little justice here be found,
  • ’T is ten to one he ’ll ne’er come back.