domingo, 30 de outubro de 2016

Prejudice Reproved - Lydia H. Sigourney


Prejudice Reproved - Lydia H. Sigourney

God gave to afric's sons
A brow of sable dye;
And spread the country of their birth
Beneath a burning sky.

Whith a cheek of alive
He made The litle Hindoo child;
And darkly stained the forest trives,
That roam our Western wild.
To me He gave a form of fairer, whiter clay;
But a, I, therefore, in his sight, Respected more than they?

No; - tis the hue of deeds and thoughts
He traces in his book;
Tis the complexion of the heart
On which He deigns to look

Not by the tinted cheel,
That fades away so fast,
but by the color of the soul,
We shall be judged at last.


Non Sum Qualis Eram Bonae Sub Regno Cynarae - Ernest Dowson

Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine
There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
    Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,
Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
    When I awoke and found the dawn was grey:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind,
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
    Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,
    Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.


My Land and I - Henry Lawson

THEY have eaten their fill at your tables spread,
Like friends since the land was won;
And they rise with a cry of ‘Australia's dead!’
With the wheeze of ‘Australia's done!’
Oh, the theme is stale, but they tell the tale
(How the weak old tale will keep!)
Like the crows that croak on a splintered rail,
That have gorged on a rotten sheep.
I would sing a song in your darkest hour—
In your darkest hour and mine—
For I see the dawn of your wealth and power,
And I see your bright star shine.
The little men yelp and the little men lie,
And they spread the lies afar;
But we heed them never, my Land and I,
For we know how small they are.
They know you not in a paltry town—
In the streets where great hopes die—
Oh, heart that never a flood could drown,
And never a drought could dry!
Stand forth from the rim where the red sun dips,
Strong son of the land's own son—
With the grin of grit on your drought-chapped lips
And say, is your country done?
Stand forth from the land where the sunset dies,
By the desolate lonely shed,
With the smile of faith in your blighted eyes,
And say, is your country dead?
They see no future, they know no past—
The parasite cur and clown,
Who talk of ruin and death to last
When a man or a land is down.
God sends for answer the rain, the rain,
And away on the western lease,
The limitless plain grows green again,
And the fattening stock increase.
We'll lock your rivers, my land, my land,
Dig lakes on the furthest run—
While down in the corners where houses stand,
They drivel, ‘Australia's done!’
The parasites dine at your tables spread
(As my enemies did at mine),
And they croak and gurgle, ‘Australia's dead
While they guzzle Australian wine.
But we heed them never, my land, my land,
For we know how small they are,
And we see the signs of a future grand.
As we gaze on a rising star.

A Memory - Lola Ridge

I remember
The crackle of the palm trees
Over the mooned white roofs of the town…
The shining town…
And the tender fumbling of the surf
On the sulphur-yellow beaches
As we sat… a little apart… in the close-pressing night.

The moon hung above us like a golden mango,
And the moist air clung to our faces,
Warm and fragrant as the open mouth of a child
And we watched the out-flung sea
Rolling to the purple edge of the world,
Yet ever back upon itself…
As we…

Inadequate night…
And mooned white memory
Of a tropic sea…
How softly it comes up
Like an ungathered lily.


Lightning-Bugs - Hattie Howard

Around my vine-wreathed portico,
At evening, there's a perfect glow
Of little lights a-flashing -
As if the stellar bodies had
From super-heat grown hyper-mad,
And spend their ire in clashing.

As frisky each as shooting star,
These tiny electricians are
The Lampyrine Linnæan -
Or lightning-bugs, that sparkling gleam
Like scintillations in a dream
Of something empyrean.

They brush my face, light up my hair,
My garments touch, dart everywhere;
And if I try to catch them
They're quicker than the wicked flea -
And then I wonder how 'twould be
To have a dress to match them.

To be a "princess in disguise,"
And wear a robe of fireflies
All strung and wove together,
And be the cynosure of all
At Madame Haut-ton's carnival,
In fashion's gayest feather.

So, sudden, falls upon the grass
The overpow'ring light of gas,
And through the lattice streaming;
As wearily I close my eyes
Brief are the moments that suffice
To reach the land of dreaming.

Now at the ball, superbly dressed
As I suppose, to eclipse the rest,
Within an alcove shady
A brilliant flame I hope to be,
While all admire and envy me,
The "bright electric lady."

But, ah, they never shine at all!
My eyes ignite - I leave the hall,
For wrathful tears have filled them;
I could have crushed them on the spot -
The bugs, I mean! - and quite forgot
That stringing them had killed them.


Le Jeune Homme Caressant sa Chimère - John Addington Symonds

For an Intaglio

A BOY of eighteen years mid myrtle-boughs
  Lying love-languid on a morn of May,
Watch’d half-asleep his goats insatiate browse
  Thin shoots of thyme and lentisk, by the spray
  Of biting sea-winds bitter made and grey:      
Therewith when shadows fell, his waking thought
Of love into a wondrous dream was wrought.

A woman lay beside him,—so it seem’d;
  For on her marble shoulders, like a mist
Irradiate with tawny moonrise, gleam’d      
  Thick silken tresses; her white woman’s wrist,
  Glittering with snaky gold and amethyst,
Upheld a dainty chin; and there beneath,
Her twin breasts shone like pinks that lilies wreathe.

What colour were her eyes I cannot tell;      
  For as he gazed thereon, at times they darted
Dun rays like water in a dusky well;
  Then turn’d to topaz: then like rubies smarted
  With smouldering flames of passion tiger-hearted;
Then ’neath blue-veinèd lids swam soft and tender      
With pleadings and shy timorous surrender.

Thus far a woman: but the breath that lifted
  Her panting breast with long melodious sighs,
Stirr’d o’er her neck and hair broad wings that sifted
  The perfumes of meridian Paradise;      
  Dusk were they, furr’d like velvet, gemm’d with eyes
Of such dull lustre as in isles afar
Night-flying moths spread to the summer star.

Music these pinions made—a sound and surge
  Of pines innumerous near lisping waves—      
Rustling of reeds and rushes on the verge
  Of level lakes and naiad-haunted caves—
  Drown’d whispers of a wandering stream that laves
Deep alder-boughs and tracts of ferny grass
Border’d with azure-bell’d campanulas.      

Potent they were: for never since her birth
  With feet of woman this fair siren press’d
Sleek meadow swards or stony ways of earth;
  But ’neath the silken marvel of her breast,
  Display’d in sinuous length of coil and crest,      
Glitter’d a serpent’s tail, fold over fold,
In massy labyrinths of languor roll’d.

Ah, me! what fascination! what faint stars
  Of emerald and opal, with the shine
Of rubies intermingled, and dim bars      
  Of twisting turquoise and pale coralline!
  What rings and rounds! what thin streaks sapphirine
Freckled that gleaming glory, like the bed
Of Eden streams with gems enamellèd!

There lurk’d no loathing, no soul-freezing fear,      
  But luxury and love these coils between:
Faint grew the boy; the siren fill’d his ear
  With singing sweet as when the village-green
  Re-echoes to the tinkling tambourine,
And feet of girls aglow with laughter glance      
In myriad mazy errors of the dance.

How long he dallied with delusive joy
  I know not; but thereafter never more
The peace of passionless slumber soothed the boy;
  For he was stricken to the very core      
  With sickness of desire exceeding sore,
And through the radiance of his eyes there shone
Consuming fire too fierce to gaze upon.

He, ere he died—and they whom lips divine
  Have touch’d, fade flower-like and cease to be—      
Bade Charicles on agate carve a sign
  Of his strange slumber: therefore can we see
  Here in the ruddy gem’s transparency
The boy, the myrtle boughs, the triple spell
Of moth and snake and white witch terrible.


An Invocation - Anonymous


In an Autumn Garden - Isabel Ecclestone Mackay

TO-NIGHT the air discloses
  Souls of a million roses,
And ghosts of hyacinths that died too soon;
  From Pan's safe-hidden altar
  Dim wraiths of incense falter
In waving spiral, making sweet the moon!

  Aroused from fragrant covers,
  The vows of vanished lovers
Take voice in whisperings that rise and pass;
  Where the crisped leaves are lying
  A tremulous, low sighing
Breathes like a startled spirit o'er the grass.

  Ah, Love! in some far garden,
  In Arcady or Arden,
We two were lovers! Hush--remember not
  The years in which I've missed you--
  'Twas yesterday I kissed you
Beneath this haunted moon! Have you forgot?


The Hound of Heaven - Francis Thompson

I FLED Him, down the nights and down the days;
  I fled Him, down the arches of the years;
I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways
    Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears
I hid from Him, and under running laughter.      
      Up vistaed hopes I sped;
      And shot, precipitated,
Adown Titanic glooms of chasmèd fears,
  From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.
      But with unhurrying chase,      
      And unperturbèd pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
      They beat—and a Voice beat
      More instant than the Feet—
‘All things betray thee, who betrayest Me.’      

          I pleaded, outlaw-wise,
By many a hearted casement, curtained red,
  Trellised with intertwining charities;
(For, though I knew His love Who followèd,
        Yet was I sore adread      
Lest, having Him, I must have naught beside).
But, if one little casement parted wide,
  The gust of His approach would clash it to.
  Fear wist not to evade, as Love wist to pursue.
Across the margent of the world I fled,      
  And troubled the gold gateways of the stars,
  Smiting for shelter on their clangèd bars;
        Fretted to dulcet jars
And silvern chatter the pale ports o’ the moon.
I said to Dawn: Be sudden—to Eve: Be soon;      
  With thy young skiey blossoms heap me over
        From this tremendous Lover—
Float thy vague veil about me, lest He see!
  I tempted all His servitors, but to find
My own betrayal in their constancy,      
In faith to Him their fickleness to me,
  Their traitorous trueness, and their loyal deceit.
To all swift things for swiftness did I sue;
  Clung to the whistling mane of every wind.
      But whether they swept, smoothly fleet,      
    The long savannahs of the blue;
        Or whether, Thunder-driven,
    They clanged his chariot ’thwart a heaven,
Plashy with flying lightnings round the spurn o’ their feet:—
  Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue.      
      Still with unhurrying chase,
      And unperturbèd pace,
    Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
      Came on the following Feet,
      And a Voice above their beat—      
    ‘Naught shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me.’

I sought no more that after which I strayed
  In face of man or maid;
But still within the little children’s eyes
  Seems something, something that replies,      
They at least are for me, surely for me!
I turned me to them very wistfully;
But just as their young eyes grew sudden fair
  With dawning answers there,
Their angel plucked them from me by the hair.      
‘Come then, ye other children, Nature’s—share
With me’ (said I) ‘your delicate fellowship;
  Let me greet you lip to lip,
  Let me twine with you caresses,
  With our Lady-Mother’s vagrant tresses,
  With her in her wind-walled palace,
  Underneath her azured daïs,
  Quaffing, as your taintless way is,      
    From a chalice
Lucent-weeping out of the dayspring.’
    So it was done:
I in their delicate fellowship was one—
Drew the bolt of Nature’s secrecies.      
  I knew all the swift importings
  On the wilful face of skies;
  I knew how the clouds arise
  Spumèd of the wild sea-snortings;
    All that’s born or dies      
  Rose and drooped with; made them shapers
Of mine own moods, or wailful or divine;
  With them joyed and was bereaven.
  I was heavy with the even,
  When she lit her glimmering tapers      
  Round the day’s dead sanctities.
  I laughed in the morning’s eyes.
I triumphed and I saddened with all weather,
  Heaven and I wept together,
And its sweet tears were salt with mortal mine;      
Against the red throb of its sunset-heart
    I laid my own to beat,
    And share commingling heat;
But not by that, by that, was eased my human smart.
In vain my tears were wet on Heaven’s grey cheek.      
For ah! we know not what each other says,
  These things and I; in sound I speak—
Their sound is but their stir, they speak by silences.
Nature, poor stepdame, cannot slake my drouth;
  Let her, if she would owe me,    
Drop yon blue bosom-veil of sky, and show me
  The breasts o’ her tenderness:
Never did any milk of hers once bless
    My thirsting mouth.
    Nigh and nigh draws the chase,    
    With unperturbèd pace,
  Deliberate speed, majestic instancy;
    And past those noisèd Feet
    A voice comes yet more fleet—
  ‘Lo! naught contents thee, who content’st not Me!’    
Naked I wait Thy love’s uplifted stroke!
My harness piece by piece Thou hast hewn from me,
    And smitten me to my knee;
  I am defenceless utterly.
  I slept, methinks, and woke,    
And, slowly gazing, find me stripped in sleep.
In the rash lustihead of my young powers,
  I shook the pillaring hours
And pulled my life upon me; grimed with smears,
I stand amid the dust o’ the mounded years—    
My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap.
My days have crackled and gone up in smoke,
Have puffed and burst as sun-starts on a stream.
  Yea, faileth now even dream
The dreamer, and the lute the lutanist;    
Even the linked fantasies, in whose blossomy twist
I swung the earth a trinket at my wrist,
Are yielding; cords of all too weak account
For earth with heavy griefs so overplussed.
  Ah! is Thy love indeed    
A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed,
Suffering no flowers except its own to mount?
  Ah! must—
  Designer infinite!—
Ah! must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it?    
My freshness spent its wavering shower i’ the dust;
And now my heart is as a broken fount,
Wherein tear-drippings stagnate, spilt down ever
  From the dank thoughts that shiver
Upon the sighful branches of my mind.    
  Such is; what is to be?
The pulp so bitter, how shall taste the rind?
I dimly guess what Time in mists confounds;
Yet ever and anon a trumpet sounds
From the hid battlements of Eternity;    
Those shaken mists a space unsettle, then
Round the half-glimpsèd turrets slowly wash again.
  But not ere him who summoneth
  I first have seen, enwound
With glooming robes purpureal, cypress-crowned;    
His name I know, and what his trumpet saith.
Whether man’s heart or life it be which yields
  Thee harvest, must Thy harvest-fields
  Be dunged with rotten death?

      Now of that long pursuit    
    Comes on at hand the bruit;
  That Voice is round me like a bursting sea:
    ‘And is thy earth so marred,
    Shattered in shard on shard?
  Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest Me!    
  Strange, piteous, futile thing!
Wherefore should any set thee love apart?
Seeing none but I makes much of naught’ (He said),
‘And human love needs human meriting:
  How hast thou merited—    
Of all man’s clotted clay the dingiest clot?
  Alack, thou knowest not
How little worthy of any love thou art!
Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee,
  Save Me, save only Me?    
All which I took from thee I did but take,
  Not for thy harms,
But just that thou might’st seek it in My arms.
  All which thy child’s mistake
Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home:    
  Rise, clasp My hand, and come!’
  Halts by me that footfall:
  Is my gloom, after all,
Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly?
  ‘Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest,    
  I am He Whom thou seekest!
Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest Me.’


George, Who Played with a Dangerous Toy - Hilaire Belloc

When George’s Grandmamma was told
That George had been as good as gold,
She promised in the afternoon
To buy him an Immense BALLOON.
And so she did; but when it came,
It got into the candle flame,
And being of a dangerous sort
Exploded with a loud report!
The lights went out! The windows broke!
The room was filled with reeking smoke.
And in the darkness, shrieks and yells
Were mingled with electric bells,
And falling masonry and groans,
And crunching, as of broken bones,
And dreadful shrieks, when, worst of all,
The house itself began to fall!
It tottered, shuddering to and fro,
Then crashed into the street below -
Which happened to be Savile Row.
When help arrived, among the dead
Were Cousin Mary, Little Fred,
The Footmen (both of them), the Groom,
The man that cleaned the Billiard-Room,
The Chaplain, and the Still-Room Maid.
And I am dreadfully afraid
That Monsieur Champignon, the Chef,
Will now be permanently deaf -
And both his aides are much the same;
While George, who was in part to blame,
Received, you will regret to hear,
A nasty lump behind the ear.

The moral is that little boys
Should not be given dangerous toys.


Epitaph for Richard Shortridge - Anonymous

 Richard Shortridge.  1831.

          Hark! what is that noise so mournful and slow,
          That sends on the winds the tickings of woe,
          In sound like the knell of a spirit that's fled,
          And tells us, alas! a brother is dead?
          Yes, gone to the grave is he whom we lov'd
          And lifeless the form that manfully mov'd,
          The clods of the valley encompass his head,
    This tombstone reminds us our brother is dead.


During Music - Arthur Symons

THE MUSIC had the heat of blood,
  A passion that no words can reach;
We sat together, and understood
  Our own heart’s speech.

We had no need of word or sign,        5
  The music spoke for us, and said
All that her eyes could read in mine
  Or mine in hers had read.


Doctors - Sara Teasdale

Every night I lie awake
And every day I lie abed
And hear the doctors, Pain and Death,
Confering at my head.

They speak in scientific tones,
Professional and low--
One argues for a speedy cure,
The other, sure and slow.

To one so humble as myself
It should be matter for some pride
To have such noted fellows here,
Conferring at my side.


Dawn Wind - Lola Ridge

Wind, just arisen - (Off what cool mattress of marsh-moss
In tented boughs leaf-drawn before the stars,
Or niche of cliff under the eagles?)

You of living things,

So gay and tender and full of play -

Why do you blow on my thoughts - like cut flowers

Gathered and laid to dry on this paper, rolled out of dead wood?

I see you

Shaking that flower at me with soft invitation

And frisking away,

Deliciously rumpling the grass...

So you fluttered the curtains about my cradle,

Prattling of fields

Before I had had my milk...

Did I stir on my pillow, making to follow you, Fleet One?

I - swaddled, unwinged, like a bird in the egg.

Let be

My dreams that crackle under your breath...

You have the dust of the world to blow on...

Do not tag me and dance away, looking back...

I am too old to play with you,

Eternal Child.


The Cross of Snow - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

In the long, sleepless watches of the night,
   A gentle face — the face of one long dead —
   Looks at me from the wall, where round its head
   The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light.
Here in this room she died; and soul more white
   Never through martyrdom of fire was led
   To its repose; nor can in books be read
   The legend of a life more benedight.
There is a mountain in the distant West
   That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines
   Displays a cross of snow upon its side.
Such is the cross I wear upon my breast
   These eighteen years, through all the changing scenes
   And seasons, changeless since the day she died.


Cleopatra - Algernon Charles Swinburne

HER mouth is fragrant as a vine,
A vine with birds in all its boughs;
Serpent and scarab for a sign
Between the beauty of her brows
And the amorous deep lids divine.

Her great curled hair makes luminous
Her cheeks, her lifted throat and chin.
Shall she not have the hearts of us
To shatter, and the loves therein
To shred between her fingers thus?

Small ruined broken strays of light,
Pearl after pearl she shreds them through
Her long sweet sleepy fingers, white
As any pearl's heart veined with blue,
And soft as dew on a soft night.

As if the very eyes of love
Shone through her shutting lids, and stole
The slow looks of a snake or dove;
As if her lips absorbed the whole
Of love, her soul the soul thereof.

Lost, all the lordly pearls that were
Wrung from the sea's heart, from the green
Coasts of the Indian gulf-river;
Lost, all the loves of the world---so keen
Towards this queen for love of her.

You see against her throat the small
Sharp glittering shadows of them shake;
And through her hair the imperial
Curled likeness of the river snake,
Whose bite shall make an end of all.

Through the scales sheathing him like wings,
Through hieroglyphs of gold and gem,
The strong sense of her beauty stings,
Like a keen pulse of love in them,
A running flame through all his rings.

Under those low large lids of hers
She hath the histories of all time;
The fruit of foliage-stricken years;
The old seasons with their heavy chime
That leaves its rhyme in the world's ears.

She sees the hand of death made bare,
The ravelled riddle of the skies,
The faces faded that were fair,
The mouths made speechless that were wise,
The hollow eyes and dusty hair;

The shape and shadow of mystic things,
Things that fate fashions or forbids;
The staff of time-forgotten Kings
Whose name falls off the Pyramids,
Their coffin-lids and grave-clothings;

Dank dregs, the scum of pool or clod,
God-spawn of lizard-footed clans,
And those dog-headed hulks that trod
Swart necks of the old Egyptians,
Raw draughts of man's beginning God;

The poised hawk, quivering ere he smote,
With plume-like gems on breast and back;
The asps and water-worms afloat
Between the rush-flowers moist and slack;
The cat's warm black bright rising throat.

The purple days of drouth expand
Like a scroll opened out again;
The molten heaven drier than sand,
The hot red heaven without rain,
Sheds iron pain on the empty land.

All Egypt aches in the sun's sight;
The lips of men are harsh for drouth,
The fierce air leaves their cheeks burnt white,
Charred by the bitter blowing south,
Whose dusty mouth is sharp to bite.

All this she dreams of, and her eyes
Are wrought after the sense hereof.
There is no heart in her for sighs;
The face of her is more than love---
A name above the Ptolemies.

Her great grave beauty covers her
As that sleek spoil beneath her feet
Clothed once the anointed soothsayer;
The hallowing is gone forth from it
Now, made unmeet for priests to wear.

She treads on gods and god-like things,
On fate and fear and life and death,
On hate that cleaves and love that clings,
All that is brought forth of man's breath
And perisheth with what it brings.

She holds her future close, her lips
Hold fast the face of things to be;
Actium, and sound of war that dips
Down the blown valleys of the sea,
Far sails that flee, and storms of ships;

The laughing red sweet mouth of wine
At ending of life's festival;
That spice of cerecloths, and the fine
White bitter dust funereal
Sprinkled on all things for a sign;

His face, who was and was not he,
In whom, alive, her life abode;
The end, when she gained heart to see
Those ways of death wherein she trod,
Goddess by god, with Antony.


Autumn - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain,
With banners, by great gales incessant fanned,
Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand,
And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain!
Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne,
Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal hand
Outstretched with benedictions o'er the land,
Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain!
Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspended
So long beneath the heaven's o'er-hanging eaves;
Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers attended;
Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves;
And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid,
Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden leaves!


An Autumn Rain-Scene - Thomas Hardy

There trudges one to a merry-making
With sturdy swing,
On whom the rain comes down.

To fetch the saving medicament
Is another bent,
On whom the rain comes down.

One slowly drives his herd to the stall
Ere ill befall,
On whom the rain comes down.

This bears his missives of life and death
With quickening breath,
On whom the rain comes down.

One watches for signals of wreck or war
From the hill afar,
On whom the rain comes down.

No care if he gain a shelter or none,
Unhired moves on,
On whom the rain comes down.

And another knows nought of its chilling fall
Upon him aat all,
On whom the rain comes down.

October 1904


Anticipation - Amy Lowell

I have been temperate always,
But I am like to be very drunk
With your coming.
There have been times
I feared to walk down the street
Lest I should reel with the wine of you,
And jerk against my neighbours
As they go by.
I am parched now, and my tongue is horrible in my mouth,
But my brain is noisy
With the clash and gurgle of filling wine-cups.


Will you feast with me, American People?

But what have I that shall seem good to you!

On my board are bitter apples

And honey served on thorns,

And in my flagons fluid iron,

Hot from the crucibles.

How should such fare entice you!


The Ghetto





Bowery Afternoon


The Fog




The Song of Iron

Frank Little at Calvary


The Legion of Iron


A Toast

"The Everlasting Return"


The Song

To the Others


The Fiddler

Dawn Wind

North Wind

The Destroyer


The Foundling

The Woman with Jewels


Art and Life

Brooklyn Bridge


The Fire

A Memory

The Edge

The Garden


A Worn Rose

Iron Wine


The Star

The Tidings

The larger part of the poem entitled "The Ghetto" appeared originally in The New Republic and some of poems were
printed in The International, Others, Poetry, etc.  To the editors who first published the poems
the author makes due acknowledgment.



Cool, inaccessible air

Is floating in velvety blackness shot with steel-blue lights,

But no breath stirs the heat

Leaning its ponderous bulk upon the Ghetto

And most on Hester street...

The heat...

Nosing in the body's overflow,

Like a beast pressing its great steaming belly close,

Covering all avenues of air...

The heat in Hester street,

Heaped like a dray

With the garbage of the world.

Bodies dangle from the fire escapes

Or sprawl over the stoops...

Upturned faces glimmer pallidly -

Herring-yellow faces, spotted as with a mold,

And moist faces of girls

Like dank white lilies,

And infants' faces with open parched mouths that suck at the air

     as at empty teats.

Young women pass in groups,

Converging to the forums and meeting halls,

Surging indomitable, slow

Through the gross underbrush of heat.

Their heads are uncovered to the stars,

And they call to the young men and to one another

With a free camaraderie.

Only their eyes are ancient and alone...

The street crawls undulant,

Like a river addled

With its hot tide of flesh

That ever thickens.

Heavy surges of flesh

Break over the pavements,

Clavering like a surf -

Flesh of this abiding

Brood of those ancient mothers who saw the dawn break over Egypt...

And turned their cakes upon the dry hot stones

And went on

Till the gold of the Egyptians fell down off their arms...

Fasting and athirst...

And yet on...

Did they vision - with those eyes darkly clear,

That looked the sun in the face and were not blinded -

Across the centuries

The march of their enduring flesh?

Did they hear -

Under the molten silence

Of the desert like a stopped wheel -

(And the scorpions tick-ticking on the sand...)

The infinite procession of those feet?


I room at Sodos' - in the little green room that was Bennie's -

With Sadie

And her old father and her mother,

Who is not so old and wears her own hair.

Old Sodos no longer makes saddles.

He has forgotten how.

He has forgotten most things - even Bennie who stays away

     and sends wine on holidays -

And he does not like Sadie's mother

Who hides God's candles,

Nor Sadie

Whose young pagan breath puts out the light -

That should burn always,

Like Aaron's before the Lord.

Time spins like a crazy dial in his brain,

And night by night

I see the love-gesture of his arm

In its green-greasy coat-sleeve

Circling the Book,

And the candles gleaming starkly

On the blotched-paper whiteness of his face,

Like a miswritten psalm...

Night by night

I hear his lifted praise,

Like a broken whinnying

Before the Lord's shut gate.

Sadie dresses in black.

She has black-wet hair full of cold lights

And a fine-drawn face, too white.

All day the power machines

Drone in her ears...

All day the fine dust flies

Till throats are parched and itch

And the heat - like a kept corpse -

Fouls to the last corner.

Then - when needles move more slowly on the cloth

And sweaty fingers slacken

And hair falls in damp wisps over the eyes -

Sped by some power within,

Sadie quivers like a rod...

A thin black piston flying,

One with her machine.

She - who stabs the piece-work with her bitter eye

And bids the girls: "Slow down -

You'll have him cutting us again!"

She - fiery static atom,

Held in place by the fierce pressure all about -

Speeds up the driven wheels

And biting steel - that twice

Has nipped her to the bone.

Nights, she reads

Those books that have most unset thought,

New-poured and malleable,

To which her thought

Leaps fusing at white heat,

Or spits her fire out in some dim manger of a hall,

Or at a protest meeting on the Square,

Her lit eyes kindling the mob...

Or dances madly at a festival.

Each dawn finds her a little whiter,

Though up and keyed to the long day,

Alert, yet weary... like a bird

That all night long has beat about a light.

The Gentile lover, that she charms and shrews,

Is one more pebble in the pack

For Sadie's mother,

Who greets him with her narrowed eyes

That hold some welcome back.

"What's to be done?" she'll say,

"When Sadie wants she takes...

Better than Bennie with his Christian woman...

A man is not so like,

If they should fight,

To call her Jew..."

Yet when she lies in bed

And the soft babble of their talk comes to her

And the silences...

I know she never sleeps

Till the keen draught blowing up the empty hall

Edges through her transom

And she hears his foot on the first stairs.

Sarah and Anna live on the floor above.

Sarah is swarthy and ill-dressed.

Life for her has no ritual.

She would break an ideal like an egg for the winged thing at the core.

Her mind is hard and brilliant and cutting like an acetylene torch.

If any impurities drift there, they must be burnt up as in a clear flame.

It is droll that she should work in a pants factory.

 - Yet where else... tousled and collar awry at her olive throat.

Besides her hands are unkempt.

With English... and everything... there is so little time.

She reads without bias -

Doubting clamorously -

Psychology, plays, science, philosophies -

Those giant flowers that have bloomed and withered, scattering their seed...

 - And out of this young forcing soil what growth may come -

     what amazing blossomings.

Anna is different.

One is always aware of Anna, and the young men turn their heads

     to look at her.

She has the appeal of a folk-song

And her cheap clothes are always in rhythm.

When the strike was on she gave half her pay.

She would give anything - save the praise that is hers

And the love of her lyric body.

But Sarah's desire covets nothing apart.

She would share all things...

Even her lover.


The sturdy Ghetto children

March by the parade,

Waving their toy flags,

Prancing to the bugles -

Lusty, unafraid...

Shaking little fire sticks

At the night -

The old blinking night -

Swerving out of the way,

Wrapped in her darkness like a shawl.

But a small girl

Cowers apart.

Her braided head,

Shiny as a black-bird's

In the gleam of the torch-light,

Is poised as for flight.

Her eyes have the glow

Of darkened lights.

She stammers in Yiddish,

But I do not understand,

And there flits across her face

A shadow

As of a drawn blind.

I give her an orange,

Large and golden,

And she looks at it blankly.

I take her little cold hand and try to draw her to me,

But she is stiff...

Like a doll...

Suddenly she darts through the crowd

Like a little white panic

Blown along the night -

Away from the terror of oncoming feet...

And drums rattling like curses in red roaring mouths...

And torches spluttering silver fire

And lights that nose out hiding-places...

To the night -

Squatting like a hunchback

Under the curved stoop -

The old mammy-night

That has outlived beauty and knows the ways of fear -

The night - wide-opening crooked and comforting arms,

Hiding her as in a voluminous skirt.

The sturdy Ghetto children

March by the parade,

Waving their toy flags,

Prancing to the bugles,

Lusty, unafraid.

But I see a white frock

And eyes like hooded lights

Out of the shadow of pogroms

Watching... watching...


Calicoes and furs,

Pocket-books and scarfs,

Razor strops and knives

(Patterns in check...)

Olive hands and russet head,

Pickles red and coppery,

Green pickles, brown pickles,

(Patterns in tapestry...)

Coral beads, blue beads,

Beads of pearl and amber,

Gewgaws, beauty pins -

Bijoutry for chits -

Darting rays of violet,

Amethyst and jade...

All the colors out to play,

Jumbled iridescently...

(Patterns in stained glass

Shivered into bits!)

Nooses of gay ribbon

Tugging at one's sleeve,

Dainty little garters

Hanging out their sign...

Here a pout of frilly things -

There a sonsy feather...

(White beards, black beards

Like knots in the weave...)

And ah, the little babies -

Shiny black-eyed babies -

(Half a million pink toes

Wriggling altogether.)

Baskets full of babies

Like grapes on a vine.

Mothers waddling in and out,

Making all things right -

Picking up the slipped threads

In Grand street at night -

Grand street like a great bazaar,

Crowded like a float,

Bulging like a crazy quilt

Stretched on a line.

But nearer seen

This litter of the East

Takes on a garbled majesty.

The herded stalls

In dissolute array...

The glitter and the jumbled finery

And strangely juxtaposed

Cans, paper, rags

And colors decomposing,

Faded like old hair,

With flashes of barbaric hues

And eyes of mystery...


Like an ancient tapestry of motley weave

Upon the open wall of this new land.

Here, a tawny-headed girl...

Lemons in a greenish broth

And a huge earthen bowl

By a bronzed merchant

With a tall black lamb's wool cap upon his head...

He has no glance for her.

His thrifty eyes

Bend - glittering, intent

Their hoarded looks

Upon his merchandise,

As though it were some splendid cloth

Or sumptuous raiment

Stitched in gold and red...

He seldom talks

Save of the goods he spreads -

The meager cotton with its dismal flower -

But with his skinny hands

That hover like two hawks

Above some luscious meat,

He fingers lovingly each calico,

As though it were a gorgeous shawl,

Or costly vesture

Wrought in silken thread,

Or strange bright carpet

Made for sandaled feet...

Here an old grey scholar stands.

His brooding eyes -

That hold long vistas without end

Of caravans and trees and roads,

And cities dwindling in remembrance -

Bend mostly on his tapes and thread.

What if they tweak his beard -

These raw young seed of Israel

Who have no backward vision in their eyes -

And mock him as he sways

Above the sunken arches of his feet -

They find no peg to hang their taunts upon.

His soul is like a rock

That bears a front worn smooth

By the coarse friction of the sea,

And, unperturbed, he keeps his bitter peace.

What if a rigid arm and stuffed blue shape,

Backed by a nickel star

Does prod him on,

Taking his proud patience for humility...

All gutters are as one

To that old race that has been thrust

From off the curbstones of the world...

And he smiles with the pale irony

Of one who holds

The wisdom of the Talmud stored away

In his mind's lavender.

But this young trader,

Born to trade as to a caul,

Peddles the notions of the hour.

The gestures of the craft are his

And all the lore

As when to hold, withdraw, persuade, advance...

And be it gum or flags,

Or clean-all or the newest thing in tags,

Demand goes to him as the bee to flower.

And he - appraising

All who come and go

With his amazing

Slight-of-mind and glance

And nimble thought

And nature balanced like the scales at nought -

Looks Westward where the trade-lights glow,

And sees his vision rise -

A tape-ruled vision,

Circumscribed in stone -

Some fifty stories to the skies.


As I sit in my little fifth-floor room -


Save for bed and chair,

And coppery stains

Left by seeping rains

On the low ceiling

And green plaster walls,

Where when night falls

Golden lady-bugs

Come out of their holes,

And roaches, sepia-brown, consort...

I hear bells pealing

Out of the gray church at Rutgers street,

Holding its high-flung cross above the Ghetto,

And, one floor down across the court,

The parrot screaming:

Vorw?rts... Vorw?rts...

The parrot frowsy-white,

Everlastingly swinging

On its iron bar.

A little old woman,

With a wig of smooth black hair

Gummed about her shrunken brows,

Comes sometimes on the fire escape.

An old stooped mother,

The left shoulder low

With that uneven droopiness that women know

Who have suckled many young...

Yet I have seen no other than the parrot there.

I watch her mornings as she shakes her rugs

Feebly, with futile reach

And fingers without clutch.

Her thews are slack

And curved the ruined back

And flesh empurpled like old meat,

Yet each conspires

To feed those guttering fires

With which her eyes are quick.

On Friday nights

Her candles signal

Infinite fine rays

To other windows,

Coupling other lights,

Linking the tenements

Like an endless prayer.

She seems less lonely than the bird

That day by day about the dismal house

Screams out his frenzied word...

That night by night -

If a dog yelps

Or a cat yawls

Or a sick child whines,

Or a door screaks on its hinges,

Or a man and woman fight -

Sends his cry above the huddled roofs:

Vorw?rts... Vorw?rts...


In this dingy cafe

The old men sit muffled in woollens.

Everything is faded, shabby, colorless, old...

The chairs, loose-jointed,

Creaking like old bones -

The tables, the waiters, the walls,

Whose mottled plaster

Blends in one tone with the old flesh.

Young life and young thought are alike barred,

And no unheralded noises jolt old nerves,

And old wheezy breaths

Pass around old thoughts, dry as snuff,

And there is no divergence and no friction

Because life is flattened and ground as by many mills.

And it is here the Committee -

Sweet-breathed and smooth of skin

And supple of spine and knee,

With shining unpouched eyes

And the blood, high-powered,

Leaping in flexible arteries -

The insolent, young, enthusiastic, undiscriminating Committee,

Who would placard tombstones

And scatter leaflets even in graves,

Comes trampling with sacrilegious feet!

The old men turn stiffly,

Mumbling to each other.

They are gentle and torpid and busy with eating.

But one lifts a face of clayish pallor,

There is a dull fury in his eyes, like little rusty grates.

He rises slowly,

Trembling in his many swathings like an awakened mummy,

Ridiculous yet terrible.

 - And the Committee flings him a waste glance,

Dropping a leaflet by his plate.

A lone fire flickers in the dusty eyes.

The lips chant inaudibly.

The warped shrunken body straightens like a tree.

And he curses...

With uplifted arms and perished fingers,

Claw-like, clutching...

So centuries ago

The old men cursed Acosta,

When they, prophetic, heard upon their sepulchres

Those feet that may not halt nor turn aside for ancient things.


Here in this room, bare like a barn,

Egos gesture one to the other -

Naked, unformed, unwinged

Egos out of the shell,

Examining, searching, devouring -

Avid alike for the flower or the dung...

(Having no dainty antennae for the touch and withdrawal -

Only the open maw...)

Egos cawing,

Expanding in the mean egg...

Little squat tailors with unkempt faces,

Pale as lard,

Fur-makers, factory-hands, shop-workers,

News-boys with battling eyes

And bodies yet vibrant with the momentum of long runs,

Here and there a woman...

Words, words, words,

Pattering like hail,

Like hail falling without aim...

Egos rampant,

Screaming each other down.

One motions perpetually,

Waving arms like overgrowths.

He has burning eyes and a cough

And a thin voice piping

Like a flute among trombones.

One, red-bearded, rearing

A welter of maimed face bashed in from some old wound,

Garbles Max Stirner.

His words knock each other like little wooden blocks.

No one heeds him,

And a lank boy with hair over his eyes

Pounds upon the table.

 - He is chairman.

Egos yet in the primer,

Hearing world-voices

Chanting grand arias...

Majors resonant,

Stunning with sound...

Baffling minors

Half-heard like rain on pools...

Majestic discordances

Greater than harmonies...

 - Gleaning out of it all

Passion, bewilderment, pain...

Egos yearning with the world-old want in their eyes -

Hurt hot eyes that do not sleep enough...

Striving with infinite effort,

Frustrate yet ever pursuing

The great white Liberty,

Trailing her dissolving glory over each hard-won barricade -

Only to fade anew...

Egos crying out of unkempt deeps

And waving their dreams like flags -

Multi-colored dreams,

Winged and glorious...

A gas jet throws a stunted flame,

Vaguely illumining the groping faces.

And through the uncurtained window

Falls the waste light of stars,

As cold as wise men's eyes...

Indifferent great stars,

Fortuitously glancing

At the secret meeting in this shut-in room,

Bare as a manger.


Lights go out

And the stark trunks of the factories

Melt into the drawn darkness,

Sheathing like a seamless garment.

And mothers take home their babies,

Waxen and delicately curled,

Like little potted flowers closed under the stars.

Lights go out

And the young men shut their eyes,

But life turns in them...

Life in the cramped ova

Tearing and rending asunder its living cells...

Wars, arts, discoveries, rebellions, travails, immolations,

     cataclysms, hates...

Pent in the shut flesh.

And the young men twist on their beds in languor and dizziness


Their eyes - heavy and dimmed

With dust of long oblivions in the gray pulp behind -

Staring as through a choked glass.

And they gaze at the moon - throwing off a faint heat -

The moon, blond and burning, creeping to their cots

Softly, as on naked feet...

Lolling on the coverlet... like a woman offering her white body.

Nude glory of the moon!

That leaps like an athlete on the bosoms of the young girls stripped

     of their linens;

Stroking their breasts that are smooth and cool as mother-of-pearl

Till the nipples tingle and burn as though little lips plucked at them.

They shudder and grow faint.

And their ears are filled as with a delirious rhapsody,

That Life, like a drunken player,

Strikes out of their clear white bodies

As out of ivory keys.

Lights go out...

And the great lovers linger in little groups, still passionately debating,

Or one may walk in silence, listening only to the still summons of Life -

Life making the great Demand...

Calling its new Christs...

Till tears come, blurring the stars

That grow tender and comforting like the eyes of comrades;

And the moon rolls behind the Battery

Like a word molten out of the mouth of God.

Lights go out...

And colors rush together,

Fusing and floating away...

Pale worn gold like the settings of old jewels...

Mauves, exquisite, tremulous, and luminous purples

And burning spires in aureoles of light

Like shimmering auras.

They are covering up the pushcarts...

Now all have gone save an old man with mirrors -

Little oval mirrors like tiny pools.

He shuffles up a darkened street

And the moon burnishes his mirrors till they shine like phosphorus...

The moon like a skull,

Staring out of eyeless sockets at the old men trundling home the pushcarts.


A sallow dawn is in the sky

As I enter my little green room.

Sadie's light is still burning...

Without, the frail moon

Worn to a silvery tissue,

Throws a faint glamour on the roofs,

And down the shadowy spires

Lights tip-toe out...

Softly as when lovers close street doors.

Out of the Battery

A little wind

Stirs idly - as an arm

Trails over a boat's side in dalliance -

Rippling the smooth dead surface of the heat,

And Hester street,

Like a forlorn woman over-born

By many babies at her teats,

Turns on her trampled bed to meet the day.


Startling, vigorous life,

That squirms under my touch,

And baffles me when I try to examine it,

Or hurls me back without apology.

Leaving my ego ruffled and preening itself.


Articulate, shrill,

Screaming in provocative assertion,

Or out of the black and clotted gutters,

Piping in silvery thin

Sweet staccato

Of children's laughter,

Or clinging over the pushcarts

Like a litter of tiny bells

Or the jingle of silver coins,

Perpetually changing hands,

Or like the Jordan somberly

Swirling in tumultuous uncharted tides,


Electric currents of life,

Throwing off thoughts like sparks,

Glittering, disappearing,

Making unknown circuits,

Or out of spent particles stirring

Feeble contortions in old faiths

Passing before the new.

Long nights argued away

In meeting halls

Back of interminable stairways -

In Roumanian wine-shops

And little Russian tea-rooms...

Feet echoing through deserted streets

In the soft darkness before dawn...

Brows aching, throbbing, burning -

Life leaping in the shaken flesh

Like flame at an asbestos curtain.

Life -

Pent, overflowing

Stoops and fa?ades,

Jostling, pushing, contriving,

Seething as in a great vat...

Bartering, changing, extorting,

Dreaming, debating, aspiring,

Astounding, indestructible

Life of the Ghetto...

Strong flux of life,

Like a bitter wine

Out of the bloody stills of the world...

Out of the Passion eternal.



Out of the night you burn, Manhattan,

In a vesture of gold -

Span of innumerable arcs,

Flaring and multiplying -

Gold at the uttermost circles fading

Into the tenderest hint of jade,

Or fusing in tremulous twilight blues,

Robing the far-flung offices,

Scintillant-storied, forking flame,

Or soaring to luminous amethyst

Over the steeples aureoled -

Diaphanous gold,

Veiling the Woolworth, argently

Rising slender and stark

Mellifluous-shrill as a vender's cry,

And towers squatting graven and cold

On the velvet bales of the dark,

And the Singer's appraising

Indolent idol's eye,

And night like a purple cloth unrolled -

Nebulous gold

Throwing an ephemeral glory about life's vanishing points,

Wherein you burn...

You of unknown voltage

Whirling on your axis...

Scrawling vermillion signatures

Over the night's velvet hoarding...

Insolent, towering spherical

To apices ever shifting.



Innumerable ions of light,

Kindling, irradiating,

All to their foci tending...

Light that jingles like anklet chains

On bevies of little lithe twinkling feet,

Or clingles in myriad vibrations

Like trillions of porcelain

Vases shattering...

Light over the laminae of roofs,

Diffusing in shimmering nebulae

About the night's boundaries,

Or billowing in pearly foam

Submerging the low-lying stars...

Light for the feast prolonged -

Captive light in the goblets quivering...

Sparks evanescent

Struck of meeting looks -

Fringed eyelids leashing

Sheathed and leaping lights...

Infinite bubbles of light

Bursting, reforming...

Silvery filings of light

Incessantly falling...

Scintillant, sided dust of light

Out of the white flares of Broadway -

Like a great spurious diamond

In the night's corsage faceted...


In ambuscades of light,

Drawing the charmed multitudes

With the slow suction of her breath -

Dangling her naked soul

Behind the blinding gold of eunuch lights

That wind about her like a bodyguard.

Or like a huge serpent, iridescent-scaled,

Trailing her coruscating length

Over the night prostrate -

Triumphant poised,

Her hydra heads above the avenues,

Values appraising

And her avid eyes

Glistening with eternal watchfulness...

Broadway -

Out of her towers rampant,

Like an unsubtle courtezan

Reserving nought for some adventurous night.


Crass rays streaming from the vestibules;

Cafes glittering like jeweled teeth;

High-flung signs

Blinking yellow phosphorescent eyes;

Girls in black

Circling monotonously

About the orange lights...

Nothing to guess at...

Save the darkness above

Crouching like a great cat.

In the dim-lit square,

Where dishevelled trees

Tustle with the wind - the wind like a scythe

Mowing their last leaves -

Arcs shimmering through a greenish haze -

Pale oval arcs

Like ailing virgins,

Each out of a halo circumscribed,

Pallidly staring...

Figures drift upon the benches

With no more rustle than a dropped leaf settling -

Slovenly figures like untied parcels,

And papers wrapped about their knees

Huddled one to the other,

Cringing to the wind -

The sided wind,

Leaving no breach untried...

So many and all so still...

The fountain slobbering its stone basin

Is louder than They -

Flotsam of the five oceans

Here on this raft of the world.

This old man's head

Has found a woman's shoulder.

The wind juggles with her shawl

That flaps about them like a sail,

And splashes her red faded hair

Over the salt stubble of his chin.

A light foam is on his lips,

As though dreams surged in him

Breaking and ebbing away...

And the bare boughs shuffle above him

And the twigs rattle like dice...

She - diffused like a broken beetle -

Sprawls without grace,

Her face gray as asphalt,

Her jaws sagging as on loosened hinges...

Shadows ply about her mouth -

Nimble shadows out of the jigging tree,

That dances above her its dance of dry bones.


A uniformed front,


A glance like a blow,

The swing of an arm,

Verved, vigorous;

Boot-heels clanking

In metallic rhythm;

The blows of a baton,

Quick, staccato...

 - There is a rustling along the benches

As of dried leaves raked over...

And the old man lifts a shaking palsied hand,

Tucking the displaced paper about his knees.


And a frost under foot,

Acid, corroding,

Eating through worn bootsoles.

Drab forms blur into greenish vapor.

Through boughs like cross-bones,

Pale arcs flare and shiver

Like lilies in a wind.

High over Broadway

A far-flung sign

Glitters in indigo darkness

And spurts again rhythmically,

Spraying great drops

Red as a hemorrhage.


A spring wind on the Bowery,

Blowing the fluff of night shelters

Off bedraggled garments,

And agitating the gutters, that eject little spirals of vapor

Like lewd growths.

Bare-legged children stamp in the puddles, splashing each other,

One - with a choir-boy's face

Twits me as I pass...

The word, like a muddied drop,

Seems to roll over and not out of

The bowed lips,

Yet dewy red

And sweetly immature.

People sniff the air with an upward look -

Even the mite of a girl

Who never plays...

Her mother smiles at her

With eyes like vacant lots

Rimming vistas of mean streets

And endless washing days...

Yet with sun on the lines

And a drying breeze.

The old candy woman

Shivers in the young wind.

Her eyes - littered with memories

Like ancient garrets,

Or dusty unaired rooms where someone died -

Ask nothing of the spring.

But a pale pink dream

Trembles about this young girl's body,

Draping it like a glowing aura.

She gloats in a mirror

Over her gaudy hat,

With its flower God never thought of...

And the dream, unrestrained,

Floats about the loins of a soldier,

Where it quivers a moment,

Warming to a crimson

Like the scarf of a toreador...

But the delicate gossamer breaks at his contact

And recoils to her in strands of shattered rose.


Drab discoloration

Of faces, fa?ades, pawn-shops,

Second-hand clothing,

Smoky and fly-blown glass of lunch-rooms,

Odors of rancid life...

Deadly uniformity

Of eyes and windows

Alike devoid of light...

Holes wherein life scratches -

Mangy life

Nosing to the gutter's end...

Show-rooms and mimic pillars

Flaunting out of their gaudy vestibules

Bosoms and posturing thighs...

Over all the Elevated

Droning like a bloated fly.


     Undulant rustlings,

     Of oncoming silk,

     Rhythmic, incessant,

     Like the motion of leaves...

     Fragments of color

     In glowing surprises...

     Pink inuendoes

     Hooded in gray

     Like buds in a cobweb

     Pearled at dawn...

     Glimpses of green

     And blurs of gold

     And delicate mauves

     That snatch at youth...

     And bodies all rosily

     Fleshed for the airing,

     In warm velvety surges

     Passing imperious, slow...

Women drift into the limousines

That shut like silken caskets

On gems half weary of their glittering...

Lamps open like pale moon flowers...

Arcs are radiant opals

Strewn along the dusk...

No common lights invade.

And spires rise like litanies -

Magnificats of stone

Over the white silence of the arcs,

Burning in perpetual adoration.


Out of the lamp-bestarred and clouded dusk -

Snaring, illuding, concealing,

Magically conjuring -

Turning to fairy-coaches

Beetle-backed limousines

Scampering under the great Arch -

Making a decoy of blue overalls

And mystery of a scarlet shawl -

Indolently -

Knowing no impediment of its sure advance -

Descends the fog.


A late snow beats

With cold white fists upon the tenements -

Hurriedly drawing blinds and shutters,

Like tall old slatterns

Pulling aprons about their heads.

Lights slanting out of Mott Street

Gibber out,

Or dribble through bar-room slits,

Anonymous shapes

Conniving behind shuttered panes

Caper and disappear...

Where the Bowery

Is throbbing like a fistula

Back of her ice-scabbed fronts.

Livid faces

Glimmer in furtive doorways,

Or spill out of the black pockets of alleys,

Smears of faces like muddied beads,

Making a ghastly rosary

The night mumbles over

And the snow with its devilish and silken whisper...

Patrolling arcs

Blowing shrill blasts over the Bread Line

Stalk them as they pass,

Silent as though accouched of the darkness,

And the wind noses among them,

     Like a skunk

That roots about the heart...


And the Elevated slams upon the silence

Like a ponderous door.

Then all is still again,

Save for the wind fumbling over

The emptily swaying faces -

The wind rummaging

Like an old Jew...

Faces in glimmering rows...

(No sign of the abject life -

Not even a blasphemy...)

But the spindle legs keep time

To a limping rhythm,

And the shadows twitch upon the snow

     Convulsively -

As though death played

With some ungainly dolls.



I love those spirits

That men stand off and point at,

Or shudder and hood up their souls -

Those ruined ones,

Where Liberty has lodged an hour

And passed like flame,

Bursting asunder the too small house.


I would be a torch unto your hand,

A lamp upon your forehead, Labor,

In the wild darkness before the Dawn

That I shall never see...

We shall advance together, my Beloved,

Awaiting the mighty ushering...

Together we shall make the last grand charge

And ride with gorgeous Death

With all her spangles on

And cymbals clashing...

And you shall rush on exultant as I fall -

Scattering a brief fire about your feet...

Let it be so...

Better - while life is quick

And every pain immense and joy supreme,

And all I have and am

Flames upward to the dream...

Than like a taper forgotten in the dawn,

Burning out the wick.



Not yet hast Thou sounded

Thy clangorous music,

Whose strings are under the mountains...

Not yet hast Thou spoken

The blooded, implacable Word...

But I hear in the Iron singing -

In the triumphant roaring of the steam and pistons pounding -

Thy barbaric exhortation...

And the blood leaps in my arteries, unreproved,

Answering Thy call...

All my spirit is inundated with the tumultuous passion of Thy Voice,

And sings exultant with the Iron,

For now I know I too am of Thy Chosen...

Oh fashioned in fire -

Needing flame for Thy ultimate word -

Behold me, a cupola

Poured to Thy use!

Heed not my tremulous body

That faints in the grip of Thy gauntlet.

Break it... and cast it aside...

But make of my spirit

That dares and endures

Thy crucible...

Pour through my soul

Thy molten, world-whelming song.

... Here at Thy uttermost gate

Like a new Mary, I wait...


Charge the blast furnace, workman...

Open the valves -

Drive the fires high...

(Night is above the gates).

How golden-hot the ore is

From the cupola spurting,

Tossing the flaming petals

Over the silt and furnace ash -

Blown leaves, devastating,

Falling about the world...

Out of the furnace mouth -

Out of the giant mouth -

The raging, turgid, mouth -

Fall fiery blossoms

Gold with the gold of buttercups

In a field at sunset,

Or huskier gold of dandelions,

Warmed in sun-leavings,

Or changing to the paler hue

At the creamy hearts of primroses.

Charge the converter, workman -

Tired from the long night?

But the earth shall suck up darkness -

The earth that holds so much...

And out of these molten flowers,

Shall shape the heavy fruit...

Then open the valves -

Drive the fires high,

Your blossoms nurturing.

(Day is at the gates

And a young wind...)

Put by your rod, comrade,

And look with me, shading your eyes...

Do you not see -

Through the lucent haze

Out of the converter rising -

In the spirals of fire

Smiting and blinding,

A shadowy shape

White as a flame of sacrifice,

Like a lily swaying?


The ore leaping in the crucibles,

The ore communicant,

Sending faint thrills along the leads...

Fire is running along the roots of the mountains...

I feel the long recoil of earth

As under a mighty quickening...

(Dawn is aglow in the light of the Iron...)

All palpitant, I wait...


Here ye, Dictators - late Lords of the Iron,

Shut in your council rooms, palsied, depowered -

The blooded, implacable Word?

Not whispered in cloture, one to the other,

(Brother in fear of the fear of his brother...)

But chanted and thundered

On the brazen, articulate tongues of the Iron

Babbling in flame...

Sung to the rhythm of prisons dismantled,

Manacles riven and ramparts defaced...

(Hearts death-anointed yet hearing life calling...)

Ankle chains bursting and gallows unbraced...

Sung to the rhythm of arsenals burning...

Clangor of iron smashing on iron,

Turmoil of metal and dissonant baying

Of mail-sided monsters shattered asunder...

Hulks of black turbines all mangled and roaring,

Battering egress through ramparted walls...

Mouthing of engines, made rabid with power,

Into the holocaust snorting and plunging...

Mighty converters torn from their axis,

Flung to the furnaces, vomiting fire,

Jumbled in white-heaten masses disshapen...

Writhing in flame-tortured levers of iron...

Gnashing of steel serpents twisting and dying...

Screeching of steam-glutted cauldrons rending...

Shock of leviathans prone on each other...

Scaled flanks touching, ore entering ore...

Steel haunches closing and grappling and swaying

In the waltz of the mating locked mammoths of iron,

Tasting the turbulent fury of living,

Mad with a moment's exuberant living!

Crash of devastating hammers despoiling..

Hands inexorable, marring

What hands had so cunningly moulded...

Structures of steel welded, subtily tempered,

Marvelous wrought of the wizards of ore,

Torn into octaves discordantly clashing,

Chords never final but onward progressing

In monstrous fusion of sound ever smiting on sound

     in mad vortices whirling...

Till the ear, tortured, shrieks for cessation

Of the raving inharmonies hatefully mingling...

The fierce obligato the steel pipes are screaming...

The blare of the rude molten music of Iron...



He walked under the shadow of the Hill

Where men are fed into the fires

And walled apart...

Unarmed and alone,

He summoned his mates from the pit's mouth

Where tools rested on the floors

And great cranes swung

Unemptied, on the iron girders.

And they, who were the Lords of the Hill,

Were seized with a great fear,

When they heard out of the silence of wheels

The answer ringing

In endless reverberations

Under the mountain...

So they covered up their faces

And crept upon him as he slept...

Out of eye-holes in black cloth

They looked upon him who had flung

Between them and their ancient prey

The frail barricade of his life...

And when night - that has connived at so much -

Was heavy with the unborn day,

They haled him from his bed...

Who might know of that wild ride?

Only the bleak Hill -

The red Hill, vigilant,

Like a blood-shot eye

In the black mask of night -

Dared watch them as they raced

By each blind-folded street

Godiva might have ridden down...

But when they stopped beside the Place,

I know he turned his face

Wistfully to the accessory night...

And when he saw - against the sky,

Sagged like a silken net

Under its load of stars -

The black bridge poised

Like a gigantic spider motionless...

I know there was a silence in his heart,

As of a frozen sea,

Where some half lifted arm, mid-way

Wavers, and drops heavily...

I know he waved to life,

And that life signaled back, transcending space,

To each high-powered sense,

So that he missed no gesture of the wind

Drawing the shut leaves close...

So that he saw the light on comrades' faces

Of camp fires out of sight...

And the savor of meat and bread

Blew in his nostrils... and the breath

Of unrailed spaces

Where shut wild clover smelled as sweet

As a virgin in her bed.

I know he looked once at America,

Quiescent, with her great flanks on the globe,

And once at the skies whirling above him...

Then all that he had spoken against

And struck against and thrust against

Over the frail barricade of his life

Rushed between him and the stars...


Life thunders on...

Over the black bridge

The line of lighted cars

Creeps like a monstrous serpent

Spooring gold...

Watchman, what of the track?

Night... silence... stars...

All's Well!



(Breaking mists...

Hills gliding like hands out of a slipping hold...)

Light over the pit mouths,

Streaming in tenuous rays down the black gullets of the Hill...

(The copper, insensate, sleeping in the buried lode.)


Forcing the clogged windows of arsenals...

Probing with long sentient fingers in the copper chips...

Gleaming metallic and cold

In numberless slivers of steel...

Light over the trestles and the iron clips

Of the black bridge - poised like a gigantic spider motionless -

Sweet inquisition of light, like a child's wonder...

Intrusive, innocently staring light

That nothing appals...

Light in the slow fumbling summer leaves,

Cooing and calling

All winged and avid things

Waking the early flies, keen to the scent...

Green-jeweled iridescent flies

Unerringly steering -

Swarming over the blackened lips,

The young day sprays with indiscriminate gold...

Watchman, what of the Hill?

Wheels turn;

The laden cars

Go rumbling to the mill,

And Labor walks beside the mules...

All's Well with the Hill!


Spires of Grace Church,

For you the workers of the world

Travailed with the mountains...

Aborting their own dreams

Till the dream of you arose -

Beautiful, swaddled in stone -

Scorning their hands.


They pass through the great iron gates -

Men with eyes gravely discerning,

Skilled to appraise the tunnage of cranes

Or split an inch into thousandths -

Men tempered by fire as the ore is

And planned to resistance

Like steel that has cooled in the trough;

Silent of purpose, inflexible, set to fulfilment -

To conquer, withstand, overthrow...

Men mannered to large undertakings,

Knowing force as a brother

And power as something to play with,

Seeing blood as a slip of the iron,

To be wiped from the tools

Lest they rust.

But what if they stood aside,

Who hold the earth so careless in the crook of their arms?

What of the flamboyant cities

And the lights guttering out like candles in a wind...

And the armies halted...

And the train mid-way on the mountain

And idle men chaffing across the trenches...

And the cursing and lamentation

And the clamor for grain shut in the mills of the world?

What if they stayed apart,

Inscrutably smiling,

Leaving the ground encumbered with dead wire

And the sea to row-boats

And the lands marooned -

Till Time should like a paralytic sit,

A mildewed hulk above the nations squatting?


What of the silence of the keys

And silvery hands? The iron sings...

Though bows lie broken on the strings,

The fly-wheels turn eternally...

Bring fuel - drive the fires high...

Throw all this artist-lumber in

And foolish dreams of making things...

(Ten million men are called to die.)

As for the common men apart,

Who sweat to keep their common breath,

And have no hour for books or art -

What dreams have these to hide from death!


Not your martyrs anointed of heaven -

     The ages are red where they trod -

But the Hunted - the world's bitter leaven -

     Who smote at your imbecile God -

A being to pander and fawn to,

     To propitiate, flatter and dread

As a thing that your souls are in pawn to,

     A Dealer who traffics the dead;

A Trader with greed never sated,

     Who barters the souls in his snares,

That were trapped in the lusts he created,

     For incense and masses and prayers -

They are crushed in the coils of your halters;

     'Twere well - by the creeds ye have nursed -

That ye send up a cry from your altars,

     A mass for the Martyrs Accursed;

A passionate prayer from reprieval

     For the Brotherhood not understood -

For the Heroes who died for the evil,

     Believing the evil was good.

To the Breakers, the Bold, the Despoilers,

     Who dreamed of a world over-thrown...

They who died for the millions of toilers -

     Few - fronting the nations alone!

 - To the Outlawed of men and the Branded,

     Whether hated or hating they fell -

I pledge the devoted, red-handed,

     Unfaltering Heroes of Hell!



It is dark... so dark, I remember the sun on Chios...

It is still... so still, I hear the beat of our paddles on the Aegean...

Ten times we had watched the moon

Rise like a thin white virgin out of the waters

And round into a full maternity...

For thrice ten moons we had touched no flesh

Save the man flesh on either hand

That was black and bitter and salt and scaled by the sea.

The Athenian boy sat on my left...

His hair was yellow as corn steeped in wine...

And on my right was Phildar the Carthaginian,

Grinning Phildar

With his mouth pulled taut as by reins from his black gapped teeth.

Many a whip had coiled about him

And his shoulders were rutted deep as wet ground under chariot wheels,

And his skin was red and tough as a bull's hide cured in the sun.

He did not sing like the other slaves,

But when a big wind came up he screamed with it.

And always he looked out to sea,

Save when he tore at his fish ends

Or spat across me at the Greek boy, whose mouth was red and apart

     like an opened fruit.

We had rowed from dawn and the green galley hard at our stern.

She was green and squat and skulked close to the sea.

All day the tish of their paddles had tickled our ears,

And when night came on

And little naked stars dabbled in the water

And half the crouching moon

Slid over the silver belly of the sea thick-scaled with light,

We heard them singing at their oars...

We who had no breath for song.

There was no sound in our boat

Save the clingle of wrist chains

And the sobbing of the young Greek.

I cursed him that his hair blew in my mouth, tasting salt of the sea...

I cursed him that his oar kept ill time...

When he looked at me I cursed him again,

That his eyes were soft as a woman's.

How long... since their last shell gouged our batteries?

How long... since we rose at aim with a sleuth moon astern?

(It was the damned green moon that nosed us out...

The moon that flushed our periscope till it shone like a silver flame...)

They loosed each man's right hand

As the galley spent on our decks...

And amazed and bloodied we reared half up

And fought askew with the left hand shackled...

But a zigzag fire leapt in our sockets

And knotted our thews like string...

Our thews grown stiff as a crooked spine that would not straighten...

How long... since our gauges fell

And the sea shoved us under?

It is dark... so dark...

Darkness presses hairy-hot

Where three make crowded company...

And the rank steel smells....

It is still... so still...

I seem to hear the wind

On the dimpled face of the water fathoms above...

It was still... so still... we three that were left alive

Stared in each other's faces...

But three make bitter company at one man's bread...

And our hate grew sharp and bright as the moon's edge in the water.

One grinned with his mouth awry from the long gapped teeth...

And one shivered and whined like a gull as the waves pawed us over...

But one struck with his hate in his hand...

After that I remember

Only the dead men's oars that flapped in the sea...

The dead men's oars that rattled and clicked like idiots' tongues.

It is still... so still, with the jargon of engines quiet.

We three awaiting the crunch of the sea

Reach our hands in the dark and touch each other's faces...

We three sheathing hate in our hearts...

But when hate shall have made its circuit,

Our bones will be loving company

Here in the sea's den...

And one whimpers and cries on his God

And one sits sullenly

But both draw away from me...

For I am the pyre their memories burn on...

Like black flames leaping

Our fiery gestures light the walled-in darkness of the sea...

The sea that kneels above us...

And makes no sign.


Old plant of Asia -

Mutilated vine

Holding earth's leaping sap

In every stem and shoot

That lopped off, sprouts again -

Why should you seek a plateau walled about,

Whose garden is the world?


That day, in the slipping of torsos and straining flanks

     on the bloodied ooze of fields plowed by the iron,

And the smoke bluish near earth and bronze in the sunshine

     floating like cotton-down,

And the harsh and terrible screaming,

And that strange vibration at the roots of us...

Desire, fierce, like a song...

And we heard

(Do you remember?)

All the Red Cross bands on Fifth avenue

And bugles in little home towns

And children's harmonicas bleating


And after...

(Do you remember?)

The drollery of the wind on our faces,

And horizons reeling,

And the terror of the plain

Heaving like a gaunt pelvis to the sun...

Under us - threshing and twanging

Torn-up roots of the Song...


I see you, refulgent ones,

Burning so steadily

Like big white arc lights...

There are so many of you.

I like to watch you weaving -

Altogether and with precision

Each his ray -

Your tracery of light,

Making a shining way about America.

I note your infinite reactions -

In glassware

And sequin

And puddles

And bits of jet -

And here and there a diamond...

But you do not yet see me,

Who am a torch blown along the wind,

Flickering to a spark

But never out.


Oh, God did cunningly, there at Babel -

Not mere tongues dividing, but soul from soul,

So that never again should men be able

To fashion one infinite, towering whole.


In a little Hungarian cafe

Men and women are drinking

Yellow wine in tall goblets.

Through the milky haze of the smoke,

The fiddler, under-sized, blond,

Leans to his violin

As to the breast of a woman.

Red hair kindles to fire

On the black of his coat-sleeve,

Where his white thin hand

Trembles and dives,

Like a sliver of moonlight,

When wind has broken the water.


Wind, just arisen -

(Off what cool mattress of marsh-moss

In tented boughs leaf-drawn before the stars,

Or niche of cliff under the eagles?)

You of living things,

So gay and tender and full of play -

Why do you blow on my thoughts - like cut flowers

Gathered and laid to dry on this paper, rolled out of dead wood?

I see you

Shaking that flower at me with soft invitation

And frisking away,

Deliciously rumpling the grass...

So you fluttered the curtains about my cradle,

Prattling of fields

Before I had had my milk...

Did I stir on my pillow, making to follow you, Fleet One?

I - swaddled, unwinged, like a bird in the egg.

Let be

My dreams that crackle under your breath...

You have the dust of the world to blow on...

Do not tag me and dance away, looking back...

I am too old to play with you,

Eternal Child.


I love you, malcontent

Male wind -

Shaking the pollen from a flower

Or hurling the sea backward from the grinning sand.

Blow on and over my dreams...

Scatter my sick dreams...

Throw your lusty arms about me...

Envelop all my hot body...

Carry me to pine forests -

Great, rough-bearded forests...

Bring me to stark plains and steppes...

I would have the North to-night -

The cold, enduring North.

And if we should meet the Snow,

Whirling in spirals,

And he should blind my eyes...

Ally, you will defend me -

You will hold me close,

Blowing on my eyelids.


I am of the wind...

A wisp of the battering wind...

I trail my fingers along the Alps

And an avalanche falls in my wake...

I feel in my quivering length

When it buries the hamlet beneath...

I hurriedly sweep aside

The cities that clutter our path...

As we whirl about the circle of the globe...

As we tear at the pillars of the world...

Open to the wind,

The Destroyer!

The wind that is battering at your gates.


Rock-a-by baby, woolly and brown...

(There's a shout at the door an' a big red light...)

Lil' coon baby, mammy is down...

Han's that hold yuh are steady an' white...

Look piccaninny - such a gran' blaze

Lickin' up the roof an' the sticks of home -

Ever see the like in all yo' days!

 - Cain't yuh sleep, mah bit-of-honey-comb?

Rock-a-by baby, up to the sky!

Look at the cherries driftin' by -

Bright red cherries spilled on the groun' -

Piping-hot cherries at nuthin' a poun'!

Hush, mah lil' black-bug - doan yuh weep.

Daddy's run away an' mammy's in a heap

By her own fron' door in the blazin' heat

Outah the shacks like warts on the street...

An' the singin' flame an' the gleeful crowd

Circlin' aroun'... won't mammy be proud!

With a stone at her hade an' a stone on her heart,

An' her mouth like a red plum, broken apart...

See where the blue an' khaki prance,

Adding brave colors to the dance

About the big bonfire white folks make -

Such gran' doin's fo' a lil' coon's sake!

Hear all the eagah feet runnin' in town -

See all the willin' han's reach outah night -

Han's that are wonderful, steady an' white!

To toss up a lil' babe, blinkin' an' brown...

Rock-a-by baby - higher an' higher!

Mammy is sleepin' an' daddy's run lame...

(Soun' may yuh sleep in yo' cradle o' fire!)

Rock-a-by baby, hushed in the flame...

(An incident of the East St. Louis Race Riots, when some white women flung

a living colored baby into the heart of a blazing fire.)


Snow wraiths circle us

Like washers of the dead,

Flapping their white wet cloths


About the grizzled head,

Where the coarse hair mats like grass,

And the efficient wind

With cold professional baste

Probes like a lancet

Through the cotton shirt...

About us are white cliffs and space.

No fa?ades show,

Nor roof nor any spire...

All sheathed in snow...

The parasitic snow

That clings about them like a blight.

Only detached lights

Float hazily like greenish moons,

And endlessly

Down the whore-street,

Accouched and comforted and sleeping warm,

The blizzard waltzes with the night.


The woman with jewels sits in the cafe,

Spraying light like a fountain.

Diamonds glitter on her bulbous fingers

And on her arms, great as thighs,

Diamonds gush from her ear-lobes over the goitrous throat.

She is obesely beautiful.

Her eyes are full of bleared lights,

Like little pools of tar, spilled by a sailor in mad haste for shore...

And her mouth is scarlet and full - only a little crumpled -

     like a flower that has been pressed apart...

Why does she come alone to this obscure basement -

She who should have a litter and hand-maidens to support her

     on either side?

She ascends the stairway, and the waiters turn to look at her,

     spilling the soup.

The black satin dress is a little lifted, showing the dropsical legs

     in their silken fleshings...

The mountainous breasts tremble...

There is an agitation in her gems,

That quiver incessantly, emitting trillions of fiery rays...

She erupts explosive breaths...

Every step is an adventure

From this...

The serpent's tooth

Saved Cleopatra.


I have known only my own shallows -

Safe, plumbed places,

Where I was wont to preen myself.

But for the abyss

I wanted a plank beneath

And horizons...

I was afraid of the silence

And the slipping toe-hold...

Oh, could I now dive

Into the unexplored deeps of me -

Delve and bring up and give

All that is submerged, encased, unfolded,

That is yet the best.


When Art goes bounding, lean,

Up hill-tops fired green

To pluck a rose for life.

Life like a broody hen

Cluck-clucks him back again.

But when Art, imbecile,

Sits old and chill

On sidings shaven clean,

And counts his clustering

Dead daisies on a string

With witless laughter....

Then like a new Jill

Toiling up a hill

Life scrambles after.


Pythoness body - arching

Over the night like an ecstasy -

I feel your coils tightening...

And the world's lessening breath.


Men die...

Dreams only change their houses.

They cannot be lined up against a wall

And quietly buried under ground,

And no more heard of...

However deep the pit and heaped the clay -

Like seedlings of old time

Hooding a sacred rose under the ice cap of the world -

Dreams will to light.


The old men of the world have made a fire

To warm their trembling hands.

They poke the young men in.

The young men burn like withes.

If one run a little way,

The old men are wrath.

They catch him and bind him and throw him again to the flames.

Green withes burn slow...

And the smoke of the young men's torment

Rises round and sheer as the trunk of a pillared oak,

And the darkness thereof spreads over the sky....

Green withes burn slow...

And the old men of the world sit round the fire

And rub their hands....

But the smoke of the young men's torment

Ascends up for ever and ever.


I remember

The crackle of the palm trees

Over the mooned white roofs of the town...

The shining town...

And the tender fumbling of the surf

On the sulphur-yellow beaches

As we sat... a little apart... in the close-pressing night.

The moon hung above us like a golden mango,

And the moist air clung to our faces,

Warm and fragrant as the open mouth of a child

And we watched the out-flung sea

Rolling to the purple edge of the world,

Yet ever back upon itself...

As we...

Inadequate night...

And mooned white memory

Of a tropic sea...

How softly it comes up

Like an ungathered lily.


I thought to die that night in the solitude where they would never find me...

But there was time...

And I lay quietly on the drawn knees of the mountain,

     staring into the abyss...

I do not know how long...

I could not count the hours, they ran so fast

Like little bare-foot urchins - shaking my hands away...

But I remember

Somewhere water trickled like a thin severed vein...

And a wind came out of the grass,

Touching me gently, tentatively, like a paw.

As the night grew

The gray cloud that had covered the sky like sackcloth

Fell in ashen folds about the hills,

Like hooded virgins, pulling their cloaks about them...

There must have been a spent moon,

For the Tall One's veil held a shimmer of silver...

That too I remember...

And the tenderly rocking mountain


And beating stars...


Lay like a waxen hand upon the world,

And folded hills

Broke into a sudden wonder of peaks, stemming clear and cold,

Till the Tall One bloomed like a lily,

Flecked with sun,

Fine as a golden pollen -

It seemed a wind might blow it from the snow.

I smelled the raw sweet essences of things,

And heard spiders in the leaves

And ticking of little feet,

As tiny creatures came out of their doors

To see God pouring light into his star...

... It seemed life held

No future and no past but this...

And I too got up stiffly from the earth,

And held my heart up like a cup...


Bountiful Givers,

I look along the years

And see the flowers you threw...


And sprigs of gray

Sparse heather of the rocks,

Or a wild violet

Or daisy of a daisied field...

But each your best.

I might have worn them on my breast

To wilt in the long day...

I might have stemmed them in a narrow vase

And watched each petal sallowing...

I might have held them so - mechanically -

Till the wind winnowed all the leaves

And left upon my hands

A little smear of dust.


I hid them in the soft warm loam

Of a dim shadowed place...


In a still cool grotto,

Lit only by the memories of stars

And the wide and luminous eyes

Of dead poets

That love me and that I love...

Deep... deep...

Where none may see - not even ye who gave -

About my soul your garden beautiful.


There is music in the strong

     Deep-throated bush,

Whisperings of song

     Heard in the leaves' hush -

Ballads of the trees

     In tongues unknown -

A reminiscent tone

     On minor keys...

Boughs swaying to and fro

     Though no winds pass...

Faint odors in the grass

     Where no flowers grow,

And flutterings of wings

     And faint first notes,

Once babbled on the boughs

     Of faded springs.

Is it music from the graves

     Of all things fair

Trembling on the staves

     Of spacious air -

Fluted by the winds

     Songs with no words -

Sonatas from the throats

     Of master birds?

One peering through the husk

     Of darkness thrown

May hear it in the dusk -

     That ancient tone,

Silvery as the light

     Of long dead stars

Yet falling through the night

     In trembling bars.


Where to-day would a dainty buyer

Imbibe your scented juice,

Pale ruin with a heart of fire;

Drain your succulence with her lips,

Grown sapless from much use...

Make minister of her desire

A chalice cup where no bee sips -

     Where no wasp wanders in?

Close to her white flesh housed an hour,

     One held you... her spent form

Drew on yours for its wasted dower -

What favour could she do you more?

     Yet, of all who drink therein,

     None know it is the warm

Odorous heart of a ravished flower

Tingles so in her mouth's red core...


The ore in the crucible is pungent, smelling like acrid wine,

It is dusky red, like the ebb of poppies,

And purple, like the blood of elderberries.

Surely it is a strong wine - juice distilled of the fierce iron.

I am drunk of its fumes.

I feel its fiery flux

Diffusing, permeating,

Working some strange alchemy...

So that I turn aside from the goodly board,

So that I look askance upon the common cup,

And from the mouths of crucibles

Suck forth the acrid sap.


Tender and tremulous green of leaves

Turned up by the wind,

Twanging among the vines -

Wind in the grass

Blowing a clear path

For the new-stripped soul to pass...

The naked soul in the sunlight...

Like a wisp of smoke in the sunlight

On the hill-side shimmering.

Dance light on the wind, little soul,

Like a thistle-down floating

Over the butterflies

And the lumbering bees...

Come away from that tree

And its shadow grey as a stone...

Bathe in the pools of light

On the hillside shimmering -

Shining and wetted and warm in the sun-spray falling like golden rain -

But do not linger and look

At that bleak thing under the tree.


Last night

I watched a star fall like a great pearl into the sea,

Till my ego expanding encompassed sea and star,

Containing both as in a trembling cup.


(Easter 1916)

Censored lies that mimic truth...

     Censored truth as pale as fear...

My heart is like a rousing bell -

     And but the dead to hear...

My heart is like a mother bird,

     Circling ever higher,

And the nest-tree rimmed about

     By a forest fire...

My heart is like a lover foiled

     By a broken stair -

They are fighting to-night in Sackville Street,

     And I am not there!

Lola Ridge - 1873–1941

Lola Ridge was a poet and champion of the working class. Politically active before socialism became fashionable among New York intellectuals, Ridge participated in protests, marches, and pickets with ferocious spirit. Throughout her life she suffered illnesses, eventually dying of pulmonary tuberculosis in 1941, yet her writing is vigorous and electric. She was, as Peter Quartermain described her, “the nearest prototype in her time of the proletarian poet of class conflict, voicing social protest or revolutionary idealism.”
Lola Ridge was born Rose Emily Ridge on December 12, 1873, in Dublin, Ireland. She was Joseph Henry and Emma Reilly Ridge’s only surviving child. When Rose was 13, Emma took her to New Zealand. At the age of 21, Lola Ridge married Peter Webster, a gold mine manager. When their marriage failed, she left and enrolled at Trinity College in Sydney, New South Wales. There she studied painting at the Academie Julienne with Rossi Ashton and began writing poetry. Unfortunately, she destroyed most of these early literary efforts, but some remain at the Mitchell Library in Sydney.
Ridge moved to San Francisco in 1907 after her mother died. Though a 33-year-old divorcée, she held great hope for this fresh start. Rose Emily Ridge reinvented herself as Lola Ridge, poet and painter, and described herself as being only 23 years old. This fib about her age later caused friends to remark on her premature ill health and delicacy, and even the New York Times printed her age as 57 and not 67 at her death in 1941. Ridge made her literary debut in North America in the journal Overland Monthly, which described her as “a young Australian poet and artist, who is not without fame in her own land.” Having left her mark on California’s literary scene, she moved to New York’s Greenwich Village.
For a while, Ridge supported herself writing advertising copy and popular fiction. She finally gave up this work to preserve her artistic integrity and energy and to remain true to her increasingly radical politics. By April 1909 she had published a poem in Emma Goldman’s radical journal Mother Earth. In 1911, Ridge began working as an artists’ model, an illustrator, a factory worker and an educational organizer. She married fellow radical David Laws on October 22, 1919. The two lived a life of deliberate poverty in a drafty cold-water apartment, even when Ridge’s later literary success could have provided a more comfortable life. William Carlos Williams mocked her ascetic artistic lifestyle, but Ridge was earnest and selfless in her dedication to the working poor and to the new literature. For a number of years, Ridge lived and worked in relative obscurity.
In 1918 the New Republic published Ridge’s sequence of poems called “The Ghetto.” The poem instantly drew attention, and later that year she published this and other poems in The Ghetto and Other Poems. Likely influenced by her own experience living on the Lower East Side, many of the forty-three free-verse poems explore the life of Jewish immigrants in New York City’s ghettos. Critics found the work rough but powerful, as Conrad Aiken wrote in Dial, “One hesitates to make suggestions. Miss Ridge might have to sacrifice too much vigor and richness to obtain a greater beauty of form; the effort might prove her undoing. By the degree of her success or failure in this undertaking, however, she would become aware of her real capacities as an artist.” Some critics were struck by the strong visual quality, as described by Bella Cohen in New York Call: “She has mixed her paints in the old way, but she has thrown her brush across the canvas with strange, bold strokes.” The shocking subject matter, such as the murder of a black baby by white women during the East St. Louis race riots, also made a bold impression on the literary scene. Ridge began publishing more of her poetry in journals such as the Dial, the New Republic, Poetry and the Literary Digest.
Ridge became involved with a circle of poets involved in the journal Others, including William Carlos Williams, Alfred Kreymborg, Marianne Moore, and Waldo Frank. She worked as an associate editor of the journal until 1919, traveling to Chicago as a lecturer for The Others Lecture Bureau. Ridge held regular gatherings in her home even after Others ceased publication.
In 1920 Ridge published a new book, Sun-up, and Other Poems, a collection of free-verse imagist poems. The title poem, based on Ridge’s childhood, made the greatest impression on critics. C.K. Scott commented in Freeman on the honesty of Ridge’s portrayal: “It is an authentic achievement in one of the most difficult fields of poetry—one of the few instances in which the simplicity of the child’s approach has been conveyed with conviction almost unmarred by conscious naivete.” Some critics compared Ridge to James Joyce and H.D. Other poems in Sun-up revisit themes of political radicalism and workers’ lives, and help distinguish Ridge’s work from that of other imagist poets.
Ridge became the American editor for Harold Loeb’s Broom in 1922 (which Loeb ran from Rome). As part of her pay, she received the use of an apartment adjacent to the office in the basement of Loeb’s estranged wife, Marjorie Content. What little salary Ridge earned was just barely enough to cover her living expenses. Ridge was assertive in her capacity, insisting on occasionally publishing an all-American edition to give Loeb a vacation and Europe greater exposure to American art (one such edition was published in January 1923). Ridge held weekly Broom salons, at which she momentarily gave up her vow of poverty to feed tea and cakes to other writers. She also provided encouragement to writers and gathered pieces for Broom. An artist involved with the magazine, Matthew Josephson, author of Life among the Surrealists: A Memoir, felt Ridge was often frustrated by Loeb’s rejection of her recommendations. Whether or not this is true, Ridge did resign over Loeb and Matthew Josephson’s increasingly modernist, avant-garde and Dadaist choices. Idealistic and political, she found herself at odds with strict modernism.
In the following years, Ridge’s own work became stylistically conservative, often veering towards the mystical and spiritual. She remained an active social protestor, and in 1927 she published Red Flag, a collection of poems celebrating the Russian revolution. Babette Deutsch praised the book in New York Herald Tribune Books when she wrote, “The fire, the earnestness, the bitter and honey savors are here as in her earlier work. She has been wrought upon by the years on their passing, but she has not been changed by them.” In 1929 Ridge went to the artist retreat Yaddo in upstate New York to complete her next work, Firehead (1930).
Ridge traveled to Mexico on a Guggenheim Fellowship in 1935, and published Dance of Fire, a less successful book. Though Ridge’s fire and light metaphors for humanity’s revolutionary spirit have occurred in previous work, her language and symbolism are more opaque in Dance of Fire. Quartermain faulted the poems for their elusiveness “by a private diction of extreme abstractness and hence imprecise suggestiveness. The substance of the poetry remains amorphous.” Ridge was awarded Poetry’s Guarantor’s prize in 1935, and the next year she won the Shelley Memorial Award.

Lola Ridge died May 19, 1941, in her home in Brooklyn, at the age of 67. S.A. DeWitt established the Lola Ridge Memorial Award in Poetry in her memory. Since her death she has been neglected by biographers and anthologies, unjustly so, according to Quartermain, who defended her importance: “Unlike most American left-wing writers she had firsthand knowledge of working-class life, she was enamored of large abstractions like ‘the triumph of the working class,’ and her literary career, which moves from the romanticized realism of The Ghetto, and Other Poems to the mannered symbolism of Dance of Fire, is coherent in its predilections, in its strengths and weaknesses.”

The Ghetto, and Other Poems, Huebsch (New York City), 1918.
Sun-Up, and Other Poems, Huebsch, 1920.
Red Flag, Viking (New York City), 1927.
Firehead, Payson & Clarke (New York City), 1929.
Dance of Fire, Smith & Haas (New York City), 1935.

Contributor to periodicals, including New Republic, Dial, and New Masses. Contributing editor to New Masses.


The Feminist Companion to Literature in English, Yale University Press, 1990.
Gregory, Horace, and Marya Zaturenska, A History of American Poetry, 1900-1940, Harcourt, 1946.
Josephson, Matthew, Life among the Surrealists: A Memoir, Holt, 1962.
Kreymborg, Alfred, Our Singing Strength: A History of American Poetry, Coward-McCann, 1929.
Kreymborg, Alfred, Troubador: An American Autobiography, Boni & Liverlight, 1925.
Loeb, Harold A., The Way It Was, Criterion (New York City), 1959.
McAlmon, Robert, Being Geniuses Together 1920-1930, Doubleday, 1968.
Oxford Companion to Twentieth-Century Literature in English, Oxford University Press, 1996.
Porter, Katherine Ann, The Never-Ending Wrong, Little, Brown, 1977.
Williams, William Carlos, The Autobiography of William Carlos Williams, New Directions, 1951.
Women of Ireland, Irish Books and Media, 1996.
Berke, Nancy, Women Poets on the Left: Lola Ridge, Genevieve Taggard, Margaret Walker, University of Florida Press (Gainesville, FL), 2001.

Dial, January 25, 1919.
Freeman, February 23, 1921.
New Republic, December 25, 1929.
New York Call, November 24, 1918.
New York Evening Post, 1919.
New York Herald Tribune Books, June 5, 1927



Here is a magnificent monument, erected in 1611, by Lady Dyer, in memory
of her deceased husband, Sir William Dyer, the inscription upon which
tells us that "they multiplied themselves into seven children."  Beneath
are the following quaint lines:--

    My dearest dust, could not thy hasty day
    Afford thy drowsy patience leave to stay
    One hour longer, so that we might either
    Have set up, or gone to bed together!
    But since thy finished labour hath possessed
    Thy weary limbs with early rest,
    Enjoy it sweetly, and thy widow bride
    Shall soon repose her by thy slumbering side!
    Whose business now is to prepare
    My nightly dress and call to prayer.
    Mine eyes wax heavy, and the days grow old,
    The dew falls thick--my blood grows cold:--
    Draw, draw the closed curtains, and make room,
    My dear, my dearest dust, I come, I come.


    Here lies father, and mother, and sister, and I,
    We all died within the space of one year,
    They be all buried at Whimble except I,
    And I be buried here.


In the "Wenlock Chapel" in the above church, on an embattled altar-tomb
is a recumbent figure of a priest--representing William Wenlock, who died
1392.  Round the verge of the tomb is inscribed, in ancient characters,--

    . . . .  Ilemus hic tumulatus de Wenlock natus; in ordine
    presbiteratus; alter hujus ille: dominus meus fuit ville: hic jacet
    indignus: anime Deus esto benignus!

On the side of the tomb,--

    In Wenlock brad I: in this town lordshcippes had I! here am I now
    lady: Christes moder help me lady.  Under these stones: for a tym
    shal I rest my bones; deyn mot I ned ones.  Myghtful God gra't me thy
    woues.  Ame'.

Formerly in a window of this chapel was a portrait of Wenlock, with the
following inscription:--

    Jesu Christ, most of might,
    Have mercy on John de Wenlock, knight,
    And of his wife Elizabeth,
    Which out of this world is passed by death,
    Which founded this chapel here,
    Help thou them with your hearty prayer,
    That they may come unto that place,
    Where ever is joy and solace.

On an altar-tomb in the tower is the following:--

    Thomas Gilbert here doth stai
    Waiting for God's judgment day,
    Who died August 25, 1566.

A slab on the floor of the south aisle bears this inscription,--

    Here lyeth the body of Daniel Knight,
    Who all my lifetime lived in spite.
    Base flatterers sought me to undoe,
    And made me sign what was not true.
    Reader take care, whene'er you venture
    To trust a canting false dessenter,
    Who died June 11th, in the 61st year of his age,

A friend of Daniel Knight (at whose instigation the above epitaph was
engraved during his lifetime, and the future tombstone used as a cupboard
door) prepared an inscription for his own tomb,--

    "Here lies the body of Thomas Proctor
    Who lived and died without a doctor."

But fate, jealous of the reputation of the faculty, broke his leg, and
compelled him to sacrifice to AEsculapius.



Here lyeth the body of Samuel Wightwicke, Esqre. 1662.

       Heaven only knowes the Blisse his soul inioyes,
       Whil's wee on earth seeke after fading toyes,
    And doe not mind how saints and angells singe
    To see him thron'd with his eternall king.


In the old church near Newbury, is the following epitaph to the memory of
Sir Ben Rudyerd:--

    John Grant, in memory of his deare and honoured Master Sir Benjamin
    Rudyerd, knight, hath affixed this stone over his grave with this
    epitaph made by Sir Benjamin in his younger years:--

    Fond world, leave off this foolish trick
    Of making epitaphs upon the dead;
    Rather go write them on the quick,
    Whose soules in earthly flesh lye buried.
    For in this grave lyes nought of me
    But my soules grave, two graves well turned to one.
    Thus do I live, from death made free;
    Trust me, good friend, I am not dead, but gone
    To God and Christ, my Saviour alone.


    When this you see remember me
    As I lay under ground,
    The world say what it will of me,
    Speak of me as you have found.


There is a vulgar tradition that in this place four Johns were buried,
and they are described as follows:--John Long, John Strong, John
Ever-afraid, and John Never-afraid.  They say that John Ever-afraid was
afraid to be buried either in the church or out of it, and was
consequently buried under the wall, where the arch appears on the
outside, by the south church door.

                                * * * * *

The following is a copy of an epitaph, now almost obliterated, in Speen
Churchyard, and which, admired for its simple pathos, has been handed to
us for insertion:--

              In memory of John Matthews, of Donnington, Berks,

    When Heaven with equal eyes our quick'ning dust
    Shall view, and judge the bad and praise the just,
    His humble merits may perhaps find room
    Where kings shall wish, but wish in vain to come.

                                * * * * *

In Sunning Hill Churchyard is the following epitaph on the late Right
Hon. Colonel Richard Fitzpatrick, written by himself:--

    Whose turn is next?  This monitory stone
    Replies, vain passenger perhaps thine own;
    If idly curious, thou wilt seek to know
    Whose relicks mingle with the dust below,
    Enough to tell thee, that his destin'd span,
    On earth he dwelt, and like thyself a man.
    Nor distant far th' inevitable day
    When thou, poor mortal, shalt like him be clay;
    Through life he walk'd un-emulous of fame,
    Nor wish'd beyond it to preserve a name.
    Content, if friendship, o'er his humble bier
    Dropt but the heart-felt tribute of a tear;
    Though countless ages should unconscious glide,
    Nor learn that even he had lived and died.


On Elizth Daughter of James Bond, 1659.

    Low, here she is, deprived of lyfe,
    Which was a verteous and a loving wife;
    Until the graves again restore
    Their dead, and Time shall be no more;
    She was brought a-bed, but spous above,
    And dyed to pay the living pledge of love.

                                * * * * *

On Mr. Hugh Shepley, sometime Rector of Newbvrye, 1596.

    Full eight and twenty years he was your pastor,
    As hee was taught to feede by Christ, his Master;
    By preaching God's Word, good life, good example,
    (Food for your soules, fitt for God's house or temple)
    Hee loved peace, abandoned all strife,
    Was kinde to strangers, neighbours, children, wife;
    A lambe-like man, borne on an Easter daye,
    So liv'd, so dide, so liv's again for aye;
    As one Spring brought him to this world of sinne,
    Another Spring the Heavens received him in.

                                * * * * *

In the Parish Church of Aldermaston is the following:--

              To the precious memorie of four Virtuous Sisters,
                      daughters of Sir H. Forster, 1623.

    Like borne, like new-borne, here like dead they lye,
    Four virgin sisters, decked with pietie;
    Beavtie and other graces, which commend
    And make them all like blessed in their end.


To the memory of Mary, wife of Thomas Nelson, of this parish, who died
1618, beinge of the age of 30 years, and had issue 7 children.

    If thou religious art that passest by
    Stay and reade on; as thou art so was I:
    If thou art blest with children, and dost crave
    In God's feare them trayned up to have
    Reade on agayn, and to thyself thus tell
    Here she doth lye that was my parallel;
    Or art thou bounteous, hospitable, free,
    Belov'd of all, and they beloved of thee;
    Meeke, full of mercy, and soe truly good
    As flesh can be, and spronge of gentle blood?
    If thou art soe, to thine own dear selfe saye,
    Who on her grave my monument did lay?
    But if to these thou knowst thyselfe but chaffe,
    Pass on thy waye, reade not my epitaphe.

          Also Dorothy Nelson, wife of William Nelson, who died
            1619, being of 86 years, and had issue 7 children.

    It was not many years that made mee good,
    Neither was it in the vigor of my blood;
    For if soe then my goodness might have past,
    And as I did, have ceast to be at laste.
    But 'twas the grace my Maker did enshrine
    In my meeke breast, which cleerely there did shine.
    As my soul now amongst the chosen blest,
    Under this stone although my bones doe rest.


    Here lies the body
    Lady O'Looney,
    Great niece of Burke, commonly
    called the Sublime.
          She was
    Bland, passionate, and deeply religious;
    Also she painted in water colours,
    And sent several pictures to the Exhibition.
    She was first cousin to Lady Jones.
    And of such is the kingdom of heaven.


    Here lies a modell of frail man,
    A tender infant, but a span
    In age or stature.  Here she must
    Lengthen out both bedded in dust.
    Nine moneths imprisoned in ye wombe,
    Eight on earth's surface free; ye tombe
    Must now complete her diarie,
    So leave her to aeternatie.



                           EPITAPH ON TWO SISTERS.

    A tender mother, aunt, and friend,
    They continued to their end.


    Death is a fisherman; the world we see
    A fish-pond is, and we the fishes be;
    He sometimes angles, like doth with us play,
    And slily take us, one by one away.


                           On William Hawkins.

    Once at his death, and twice in wedlocke blest;
    Thrice happy in his labour and his rest;
    Espoused now to Christ, his head in life,
    Being twice a husband, and in death a wife.

                                On a Lady.

    Two happy days assigned are to men--
    Of wedlocke and of death.  O happy then,
    'Mongst women was she who is here interred,
    Who lived out two, and, dying, had a third.

                            On Richard Carter.

    An honest man, a friend sincere,
    What more can be said?  He's buried here.


    A sudden death, a mind contented;
    Living beloved, dead lamented.


    Here lies one, whose rest
    Gives me a restless life;
    Because I've lost a good
    And virtous wyfe.



                       Epitaph of a Wine Merchant.

    "In Obitum Mio Johannis Hammond AEnopolae Epitaphium
    "Spiritus ascendit generosi Nectaris astra,
    "Juxta Altare Calex hic facet ecco sacrum
    "Corporu [Greek text] cu fit Communia magna
    "Unio tunc fuerit Nectaris et Calicis."


1       To God        2       To Prince     3       Wife      4       Kindred
                      5       Friend        6       Poor
1       Religious     2       Loyal         3       True      4       Kind
                      5       Steadfast     6       Dear
1       In Zeal       2       Faith         3       Love      4       Blood
                      5       Amity         6       And
                                             He hath so lived, and so Deceased


It consists of four lines, each of which contains five ambusses, or ten
syllables (which is evident, from the rhyming) and therefore it should be
read thus:--

    To God, to Prince, Wife, Kindred, Friend, the Poor,
       Religious, Loyal, True, Kind, Stedfast, Dear.
    In Zeal, Faith, Love, Blood, Amity, and Store,
       He hath so liv'd, and so Deceas'd, lies here.

The meaning appears to be, that the deceased was Religious to God, Loyal
to his Prince, true to his Wife, Kind to his Kindred, Stedfast to his
Friend, and Dear to the Poor; that he was endued with those qualities all
his life, and died in the possession of them.--As to the Figures, most
likely they were used to distinguish particularly the relation which a
word in one line bore to that, which in another line had the same figure.

                                * * * * *

At BABRAHAM is this on Orazio Palovicini, who was the last deputed to
this country to collect the Peter pence; but instead of returning to
Rome, he divided the spoil with the Queen, and bought the estate at

    Here lies Orazio Palovicin,
    Who robb'd the Pope to pay the Queen.
    He was a thief.  A thief?  Thou liest!
    For why?  He robbed but antichrist.

    Him Death with besom swept from Babraham,
    Unto the bosom of old Abraham;
    Then came Hercules, with his club,
    And knocked him down to Beelzebub.


    She took the cup of life to sip,
         Too bitter 'twas to drain;
    She put it meekly from her lip,
         And went to sleep again.

                                * * * * *

At WOOD DITTON, on a gravestone in which is fixed an iron dish, according
to the instructions of the deceased:--

                  On William Symons, ob. 1753, aet. 80.

    Here lies my corpse, who was the man
    That loved a sop in the dripping pan;
    But now, believe me I am dead,
    See here the pan stands at my head.
    Still for sops to the last I cried,
    But could not eat, and so I died.
    My neighbours, they perhaps will laugh,
    When they do read my epitaph.


                            On William Webbe.

    A richer Webb than any art can weave,
    The Soule that Faith to Christ makes firmly cleave.
    This Webbe can Death, nor Devils, sunder nor untwist,
    For Christ and Grace both groundwork are and List.

                                * * * * *

At CASTLE CAMPS the following quaint epitaph on a former rector:--

    Mors mortis morti mortem nisi morte dedisset,
    AEternae Vitae Janua clausa foret.

The translation is obviously,--

    "Unless the Death of Death (Christ) had given death to death by his
    own death, the gate of eternal life had been closed."

A poetic specimen of declension!


    An angel beckoned and her spirit flew,
    But oh! her last look it cut our souls in two.


                    On John Foster, Esq. of that town.

    Nomen, decus, Tellus meum,
       Quid referunt haec ad te
    Genus etiamque meum,
       Clarum quid aut humile?

    Forsan omnes alios longe
       Ego antecellui,
    Forsan cunctis aliis valde
       (Nam quid tunc?) succubui.

    Ut hoc tu vides tumulum
       Hospes certe satis est,
    Ejus tu scis bene usum
       Tegit--"Nihil" interest.


    My name, my country, what are they to thee?
    What, whether high or low, my pedigree?
    Perhaps I surpassed by far all other men,
    Perhaps I fell below them all, what then?
    Suffice it, stranger, that thou seest a tomb,
    Its use thou knowest; it hides--"no matter whom."


    Here lies interred, beneath this stone,
    The bones of a true hearty one,
    Who lived well and died better,
    And sings in Heaven Glory for ever.


In the Cathedral is the following numerical curiosity:--

                            Human Redemption.

     590       x       590        x       590
    Born       *      Sara        *     Watts
     600       x       600        x       600
      30       x        00        x        33
    y 30       x        00        x        33
     m 3       x      d 31       --         3
     h 3       x         3        x         3       x       12

                           Nations make fun of his
                                   S. M. E.
                          Judgments begun on Earth.
                                 In memory of
                               James Fountain,
                            Died August 21, 1767,
                                Aged 60 years.

                                * * * * *

Philippa Brown, died November 22nd, 1738, aged 63.

    Here I lie, without the door,
    The church is full, 'twill hold no more;
    Here I lye, the less I pay,
    And still I lie as warm as they.
    When thou art dead, let this thy comfort be,
    That all the world by turn, must follow thee.

                                * * * * *

                On Luke Simon, died May 25, 1784, aged 63.

    Man's life's a snare, a labyrinth of woe,
    Which mortal men are doomed to struggle this;
    To-day he's great, to-morrow he's undone,
    And thus with hope and fear he travels on:
    Till some disease, or else old age,
    Calls us poor mortals trembling off the stage.


Copied from the tombstone of Mr. Samuel Johnson, commonly called Maggoty
Johnson, who was interred in a plantation or wood, belonging to the Earl
of Harrington, in Gawsworth, near Macclesfield, Cheshire.

                               Under this stone

    Rest the remains of Mr. Samuel Johnson, afterwards ennobled with the
    grander title of Lord Flame.  Who, after having been in his life
    distinct from other men by the eccentricities of his genius, chose to
    retain the same character after his death, and was, at his own
    desire, buried here, May 5th, 1773, aged 82 yrs.

    Stay thou, whom chance directs, or ease persuades
    To seek the quiet of these Sylvan shades;
    Here, undisturb'd and hid from vulgar eyes,
    A Wit, Musician, Poet, player lies;
    A dancing master, too, in grace he shone,
    And all the acts of Opera were his own;
    In comedy well skill'd he drew Lord Flame,
    Acted the part and gained himself the name.
    Averse to strife, how oft he'd gravely say
    These peaceful groves should shade his breathless clay;
    That, when he rose again, laid here alone,
    No friend and he should quarrel for a bone;
    Thinking, that were some old lame Gossip nigh,
    She possibly might take his leg or thigh.


    Beneath this stone lyes Edward Green,
    Who for cutting stone famous was seen.
    But he was sent to apprehend
    One Joesph Clarke, of Kerredge End,
    For stealing Deer of Squire Dounes,
    Where he was shot, and died o'th wounds.


                           On David Berkenhead.

    A tailor by profession,
    And in the practice, a plain and honest man.
    He was a useful member of society;
    For, though he picked holes in no man's coat,
    He was ever ready to repair
    The mischief that others did.
    And whatever _breaches_ broke out in _families_,
    He was the man to mend _all_,
    And make matters up _again_.
    He lived and died respected.

Forty years' service in Lord Penryhn's family, induced Lady Penryhn to
bestow this stone to his memory.


                      On an Old Woman who sold Pots.

    Beneath this stone lies Cath'rine Gray,
    Changed to a lifeless lump of clay.
    By earth and clay she got her pelf,
    Yet now she's turn'd to Earth herself.
    Ye weeping friends, let me advise,
    Abate your grief, and dry your eyes.
    For what avails a flood of tears?
    Who knows, but in a run of years,
    In some tall pitcher or broad pan,
    She in her shop may be again?


    Periwinks! Periwinkle! was ever her cry,
    She laboured to live Poor and honest to die;
    At the last day Again how her old Eyes will twinkle,
    For no more will she cry, Periwinks! Periwinkle!
    Ye Rich, to Virtue's want rejoicing give,
    Ye Poor, by her Example learn to live.

                                * * * * *

                               On a Sexton.

    Hurra! my brave Boys, let's rejoice at his fall,
    For if he had lived he had Buried us all.


                           On a Parish Church.

    There lies entomb'd within this vault so dark,
    A Tailor, cloth draw'r, soldier, and a clerk.
    Death snatch'd him hence, and also from him took
    His needle, thimble, sword, and prayer book.
    He could not work nor fight, what then?
    He left the world, and faintly cry'd--Amen.


                          On a swift-footed Man.

    Here lies the swift racer; so fam'd for his running,
    In spite of his boasting, his swiftness and cunning,
    In leaping o'er hedges, and skipping o'er fields,
    Death soon overtook him, and tript up his heels.


             Reader, take notice,
       That on ye 12 Feby 1760,
          Tho: Corbishley,
    A brave veteran Dragoon
       Here went into his quarters.
    But remember that when
       The trumpet calls
    He'll out and march again.



    A Dyer born, a dyer bred,
    Lies numbered here among the dead;
    Dyers, like mortals doomed to die,
    Alike fit food for worms supply.
    Josephus Dyer was his name,
    By dyeing he acquired fame;
    'Twas in his forty-second year,
    His neighbours kind did him inter.
    Josephus Dyer, his first son,
    Doth also lie beneath this stone;
    So likewise doth his second boy,
    Who was his parents' hope and joy.
    His handiwork did all admire,
    For never was a better dyer.
    Both youths were in their fairest prime,
    Ripe fruitage of a healthful clime;
    But nought can check Death's lawless aim,
    Whosoever life he choose to claim;
    It was God's edict from the throne,
    "My will upon earth shall be done."
    Then did the active mother's skill
    The vacancy with credit fill,
    Till she grew old, and weak, and blind,
    And this last wish dwelt on her mind--
    That she, when dead, should buried be
    With her loved spouse and family,
    At last Death's arm her strength defied;
    Thus all the dyeing Dyers died.

"A prolonged medical statement of the disease of which the departed may
chance to have died, is extremely popular.  At Acton, in Cornwall, there
is this particular account of how one Mr. Morton came by his end:--

    "Here lies entombed one Roger Morton,
    Whose sudden death was early brought on;
    Trying one day his corn to mow off,
    The razor slipped and cut his toe off:
    The toe, or rather what it grew to,
    An inflammation quickly flew to;
    The parts they took to mortifying,
    And poor dear Roger took to dying."

                                * * * * *

"Here is what a Cornish gentleman finds it in his heart to inscribe upon
his dear departed:--

    "My wife is dead, and here she lies,
    No man laughs and no man cries,
    Where she's gone, or how she fares,
    Nobody knows and nobody cares."


    Here lies William Smith,
    And what is somewhat rarish,
    He was born, bred, and
    Hanged in this parish.


                              Susanna Jones,

    All you that read those lines
    Would stop awhile and think,
    That I am in eternity,
    And you are on the brink.

                                * * * * *

                              Mary Matthews,

    This harmless dove, our tender love,
    Flew from this world of vice,
    To peace and rest, for ever blest,
    With Christ in Paradise.


                           On Dolly Pentreath.

    Old Doll Pentreath, one hundred age and two,
    Both born and in Paul parish buried too;
    Not in the church 'mongst people great and high,
    But in the church-yard doth old Dolly lie!


    Life's like an Inn, think man this truth upon,
    Some only breakfast and are quickly gone;
    Others to dinner stay and are full fed,
    The oldest man but sups and goes to bed.
    Large is his score who tarries through the day,
    Who goes the soonest has the least to pay.


    Beneath this stone lies Humphrey and Joan,
    Who together rest in peace,
         Living indeed,
         They disagreed,
    But now all quarrels cease.


Here lyeth the body of Theodore Paleologus, of Pesaro, in Italye,
descended from the imperyal line of the last Christian Emperor of Greece,
being the sonne of Camillo, the sonne of Prosper, the sonne of Theodore,
the sonne of John, the sonne of Thomas, the second brother of Constantine
Paleologus, that rayned in Constantinople until subdued by the Turks, who
married with Mary, the daughter of William Ball, of Hadlye, in Suffolk,
gent., and had issue five children, Theodore, John, Ferdinando, Maria,
and Dorothy; and departed this life at Clyfton, the 21st of January,

                                * * * * *

                           On Sir Francis Vere.

    When Vere sought death, arm'd 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.


    Here lies the body of Joan Carthew,
    Born at St. Columb, died at St. Cue,
    Children she had five,
    Three are dead, and two alive,
    Those that are dead chusing rather
    To die with their Mother, than live with their Father.


                         Read backwards or forwards--

    Shall we all die?
    We shall die all.
    All die shall we--
    Die all we shall.


                                Date 1671.

    Why here?--why not, it's all one ground,
    And here none will my dust confound.
    My Saviour lay where no one did--
    Why not a member as his head,
    No quire to sing, no bells to ring,
    Why so thus buried was my king.
    I grudge the fashion of the day
    To fat the church and stane the lay,
    Though nothing now of the be seen,
    I hope my name and bed be green.


              James Berlinner, killed at Huel Bedford, 1844.

    Consider well both old and young,
       Who by my grave do pass,
    Death soon may come with his keen scythe,
       And cut you down like grass.
    Tho' some of you perhaps may think
       From danger to be free,
    Yet in a moment may be sent,
       Into the grave like me.

                                * * * * *

                            William Kellaway,

    My body is turned to dust,
       As yours that living surely must,
    Both rich and poor to dust must fall,
       To rise again, when Christ doth call.

                                * * * * *

                           Elizabeth Roskelly,

    Farewell, dear husband, I bid adieu,
    I leave nine children to God and you;
    I hope you'll live in peace and love,
    I trust we all shall meet above.
    Tho' months and years in pain and tears,
    Through troubled paths I've trod,
    My Saviour's voice bids me rejoice,
    And calls my soul to God.


Here lieth the body of John Robyns, of this parish, buried the 27th day
of December, 1724, about the 80th year of his age.

                            "Prosopeia Defuncti."

    "Mark thou that readest, and my case behold,
    Ere long thou shalt be closed in death's fold,
    As well as I; nothing on earth can save
    Our mortal bodies, from the darksome grave.
    Then timely think thereon, to mind thy end;
    Wisely to be prepared when God shall send
    To fetch thee hence; and then thou shalt but die,
    To live at rest with Christ eternally.
    "Here lieth John Robyns, in his bed of dust,
    Who in the Lord did ever put his trust;
    And dying, gave a pension to the poor,
    Yearly for ever, which unlocks the door
    Of everlasting bliss, for him to reign
    With Christ his head, his great, and truest gain:
    And with the holy angels sit and sing
    Eternal anthems to the heavenly king."
    "If this stone be not kept in repair,
    The legacy devolves unto his heir."


    Here lies the Body of John Meadow,
    His life passed away like a shadow.


          Here lies we
          Babies three,
    Here we must lie
    Until the Lord do cry,
    "Come out, and, live wi' I!"



                        On a defunct Parish Clerk.

    The vocal Powers here let us mark,
    Of Philip our late Parish Clerk,
    In Church was ever heard a layman,
    With clearer voice say Amen?
    Who now with Hallelujah sound
    Like him can make the roofs rebound?
    The Choir lament his choral tones;
    The town so soon here lie his bones.
    Sleep undisturbed within thy peaceful shrine,
    Till angels wake thee with such notes as thine.



                    By Dr. Walcot, alias Peter Pindar.

To the Memory of Margaret Southcotte, who died the 27th of August, 1786,
aged 12 years and 9 months.

    Beneath this stone, in sweet repose,
       The friend of all, a fair one lies:
    Yet hence let Sorrow vent her woes,
       Far hence let Pity pour her sighs;
    Tho' every hour thy life approv'd,
       The muse the strain of grief forbears;
    Nor wishes, tho' by all belov'd,
       To call thee to a world of cares.
    Best of thy sex, alas! farewell,
       From this dark scene remov'd to shine,
    Where purest shades of mortals dwell,
       And virtue waits to welcome thine.

An ill-natured critic wrote the following under these beautiful lines:--

    Can a Southcotte be said to deserve all the praise
       Which above in the rhymes may be seen?
    But 'tis not impossible, since the stone says
       She had not reached the age of thirteen!


                   "Here lies, in a _horizontal_ position,
                            the outside _case_ of
                        George Routleigh, Watchmaker,
              whose abilities in that line were an honour to his
         Integrity was the _mainspring_, and prudence the _regulator_
                      of all the _actions_ of his life;
          Humane, generous, and liberal, his _hand_ never _stopped_
                        till he had relieved distress:
                  So nicely _regulated_ was his _movements_,
                         that he never _went wrong_,
                          except when _set a-going_
                    by people who did not know _his key_:
                  Even then he was easily _set right_ again.
                  He had the art of disposing of his _Time_,
                                   so well,
                     That his _hours_ glided away in one
                  continual _round_ of pleasure and delight,
          Till an unlucky _moment_ put a _period_ to his existence.
                   He departed this life November 14, 1802,
                             aged 57, _wound up_,
              in hopes of being taken in _hand_ by his _Maker_:
       and of being thoroughly _cleaned_, _repaired_, and _set a-going_
                           for the world to come."


    Under this stone lies three children dear,
    Two be buried at Tawton, and the other here?

                                * * * * *

Here is a still more entertaining one, upon a certain lady in Devonshire,
singularly free from any nonsensical pretence or idle bravado:--

    "Here lies Betsy Cruden,
    She wood a leaf'd but she cooden,
    'Twas na grief na sorrow as made she decay,
    But this bad leg as carr'd she away."


    Vos qui ici venez
    Pur l'alme Philip priez,
    Trente jours de pardon
    Serra vostre guerdon.


                            On Richard Adlam.

    Richardus Adlam hujus ecclesiae Vicarius obit
    Feb. 10, 1670.  Apostrophe ad Mortem.
    "Dam'n'd tyrant, can't profaner blood suffice?
    Must priests that offer be the sacrifice?
    Go tell the genii that in Hades lye
    Thy triumphs o'er this Sacred Calvary,
    Till some just Nemesis avenge our cause,
    And force this kill-priest to revere good laws!"


    Billeted here by death
    In quarters I remain,
    When the last trumpet sounds,
    I'll rise and march again.


On a man who was too poor to be buried with his relations in the

    Here lie I, at the Chancel door;
    Here I lie, because I'm poor;
    The further in the more to pay;
    Here I lie as warm as they!


    "Her marriage day appointed was,
    And wedding-clothes provided,
    But when the day arrived did,
    She sickened and she died did."

                                * * * * *

    "Here lies two brothers by misfortune surrounded,
    One died of his wounds and the other was drownded."


                To Bartholomew Doidge--And Joan his wife.

    Joan was buried the 1st day of Feby.' 1681.
    Bartholomew was buried the 12th day of Feby.' 1681.
    "She first deceas'd--he a little try'd
    "To live without her--lik'd it not, and died."


Here lie the remains of James Pady, Brickmaker, late of the parish, in
hopes that his clay will be remoulded in a workmanlike manner, far
superior to his former perishable materials.

    Keep death and Judgement always in your eye,
    Or else the devil off with you will fly,
    And in his kiln with brimstone ever fry.
    If you neglect the narrow road to seek,
    Christ will reject you, like a half Burnt Brick.


                           John Phillips, 1837.

    Vain man, in health and strength do not confide,
    This I enjoyed, yet in my bloom I died.
    Not long before as likely for to live,
    As any of the livliest sons of Eve.
    But death may come in an untimely way,
    Therefore prepare against that solemn day.

                                * * * * *

                           John Linning, 1824.

    Stop, reader! stop and view this stone,
    And ponder well where I am gone.
    Then, pondering, take thou home this rhyme--
    The grave next opened may be thine.

                                * * * * *

                           Richard Snell, 1801.

    At first I had a watery grave,
    Now here on earth a place I have;
    Wife and children don't weep for me,
    Fortune and Fate none can forsee.


                  On Eadulph, Bishop of Devon, ob. 932.

    Sis testis Christe, quod non jacet hic lapis iste,
    Corpus ut ornetur, sed spiritus ut memoretur.
    Quisquis eris qui transiris, sta, perlege, plora;
    Sum quod eris, fueramq; quod es; pro me precor ora.
    Christ! bear me witness, that this stone is not
    Put here t'adorn a body, that must rot;
    But keep a name, that it mayn't be forgot.
    Whoso doth pass, stay, read, bewail, I am
    What thou must be; was what thou art the same;
    Then pray for me, ere you go whence ye came.


Elizabeth Farington, wife of John Farington, of the county of Nottingham.
Twenty-five Knights were born in this family.  1738.

    In Oxford born, in Lydford dust I lie,
    Don't break my grave until ye judgment day.
    Then shall I rise, in shining glory bright,
    To meet my Lord with comfort and delight.


                       Wife of John Coleirm.  1694.

    If thou be curious, friend, peruse this stone;
    If thou be not soe, pray let it alone.
    Against Death's poison Virtue's the best art,
    When good men seem to die, they but depart.
    Live well, then, all; with us thoult feele,
    Bare dying makes no Death, but dying _weal_?

                       [The last word was obliterated.]


                     John Spry and Margaret his wife.

    In a good old age,
       By death we did fall,
    And here we must lie
       Until Christ doth call.

                                * * * * *

                         Gregory Nicholas.  1840.

    --Sleep here awhile, Thou Dearest
    Part of me, and in a little while I'll
    Come and sleep with thee.

                                * * * * *

                           Thomas Ching.  1857.

    In health and strength from home I went,
    I thought so to return;
    But while at work I lost my life,
    And left my friends to mourn.
    Then thou who knowest my fate,
    While pondering o'er my sod,
    So short may be thy date,
    "Prepare to meet thy God."


On the tomb of Edward Courtenay, third Earl of Devon, commonly called
"the blind and good Earl," an Epitaph, frequently quoted, appears.  The
Earl died in 1419, and his Countess was Maud, daughter of Lord Camoys.

    Hoe! hoe! who lies here?
    I, the goode Erle of Devonshire;
    With Maud, my wife, to me full dere,
    We lyved togeather fyfty-fyve yere.
    What wee gave, wee have;
    Whatt wee spent wee had;
    What wee left, we loste.


                        Richard Shortridge.  1831.

          Hark! what is that noise so mournful and slow,
          That sends on the winds the tickings of woe,
          In sound like the knell of a spirit that's fled,
          And tells us, alas! a brother is dead?
          Yes, gone to the grave is he whom we lov'd
          And lifeless the form that manfully mov'd,
          The clods of the valley encompass his head,
    This tombstone reminds us our brother is dead.



                               John Penny.

    Here honest John, who oft the turf had paced,
    And stopp'd his mother's earth, in earth is placed,
    Nor all the skill of John himself could save,
    From being stopp'd within an earthly grave.
    A friend to sport, himself of sporting fame,
    John died, as he had lived, with heart of game--
    Nor did he yield until his mortal breath
    Was hard run down by that grim sportsman--Death.
    Reader, if cash thou art in want of any,
    Dig four feet deep, and thou wilt find--a Penny.


    Since Man to Man is so unjust,
    That no Man knows what man to trust,
    My Roads are good, my Toll's just,
    Pay to-day, to-morrow I'll trust.


                       In memory of Eniah Harisdin.

   Also 4 sons who received the shock,
   Whereof 3 lies here, and one do not.
   What caused their parents for to weep,
   Because that one lies in the Deep.


    I poorly lived, I poorly died,
    And when I was buried nobody cried.

                                * * * * *

    Not born, not dead, not christen'd, not begot,
    So! here she lies, that was, and that was not;
    She was born, baptized, is dead, and what is more,
    Was in her life, not honest, not a -----
    Reader, behold a wonder rarely wrought,
    And whilst thou seem'st to read, thou readest _not_.


    Frank from his Betty snatch'd by Fate,
    Shows how uncertain is our state;
    He smiled at morn, at noon lay dead--
    Flung from a horse that kick'd his head,
    But tho' he's gone, from tears refrain,
    At judgment he'll get up again.


    Here lies a piece of Christ--
       a star in dust;
    A vein of gold--a china dish,
       that must--
    Be used in Heaven, when God
       shall feast the just.



              To the memory of Thomas Bouchier, dated 1635.

       The petterne of conjugale love, the rare
             Mirroure of father's care;
       Candid to all, his ev'ry action penn'd
             The copy of a frend,
       His last words best, a glorious eve (they say)
             Foretells a glorious day,
    Erected and composed with teares by his pensive
             sonne, James Bouchier.

                                * * * * *

Amongst the ludicrous and eccentric Epitaphs, perhaps one of the worst is
that at Gateshead, on Robert Trollop, architect of the Exchange and Town
Court of Newcastle:--

    "Here lies Robert Trollop,
    Who made yon stones roll up:
    When death took his soul up,
    His body filled this hole up."



                       "Here lies Isaac Greentree."

A man passing through the churchyard wrote as follows:--

    There is a time when these green trees shall fall,
    And Isaac Greentree rise above them all.


              Here lieth buried
              John Porter, Yeoman,
              who died 29th of April, 1600,
              who had issue eight sons and
              four daughters by one woman.
    Learn to live by faith, as I did live before,
    Learn u to give in faith, as I did at my door,
    Learn u to keep by faith, as God be still thy store,
    Learn u to lend by faith, as I did to the poor;
    Learn u to live, to give, to keep, to lend, to spend,
    That God in Christ, at day of death, may prove thy friend.


                        Jane L. Andrews, aet. 22.

    How could we wish for her to stay below,
    When joys in heaven for her prepared?
    May we, like her, our passport have, and know,
    Assuredly, that we shall gain admittance there;
    Then will her joys be ours, and own her cry,--
    We are content to live, but we would rather die.

                                * * * * *

    "Here lies the man Richard,
    And Mary his wife;
    Their surname was Pritchard
    They lived without strife;
    And the reason was plain,--
    They abounded in riches,
    They had no care or pain,
    And his wife wore the breeches."

                                * * * * *

                               Martha Blewitt,
                          of the Swan, Baythorn-End,
                               of this Parish,
                            buried May 7th, 1681.
                        Was the wife of nine Husbands
                   successively, but the 9th outlived her.
                    The Text to her Funeral Sermon was:--
                      "Last of all the Woman died also."


To the memory of Herbert George Anna, a third child, all born at one
birth, the son and daughters of Samuel and Mary Lines, of this parish,
who departed this life 30th of April, 1847, aged 3 days.

    Weep not for me my mother dear,
    Rather be you glad;
    In this world our time was short,--
    The longer rest we have.


                     Here lies
           the body of Richard Clarke,
             who died ----
                Aged -- years,
    Who lies here?  Who do you think?
    Poor old Clarke--give him some drink.
    What! dead men drink?  The reason why,--
    When he was alive he was always dry.
             And four of his children.


                               In Memory of
                         Smart Leithceulier, Esq.

A Gentleman of polite literature and elegant taste; an encourager of art
and ingenious artists; a studious promoter of literary inquiries; a
companion and friend of learned men; industriously versed in the science
of antiquity; and richly possessed of the curious productions of Nature:
but who modestly desired no other inscription on his tomb than what he
had made the rule of his life:--

       "To do justly--to love mercy--
       And to walk humbly with his God."
    Born, November 3, 1701.  Died without issue.
                    August 27, 1760.


                             To the Memory of
                              Thomas Hanse.

    "Lord, thy grace is free,--why not for me?"

This man dying greatly in debt, and being a bankrupt, one of his
creditors, being ruined by him, wrote under it:--

    And the Lord answered and said,--
    "Because thy debts a'nt paid!"


                              J. F. Hefeall.

    With long affliction I was sore oppressed,
    Till God in goodness kindly gave me rest;
    I left my widow'd wife and children dear
    To His all gracious, providential care,
    Who said do thou alone depend--
    Who am the widow and the orphan's friend.


    "Who lists to se and knowe himselfe,
    May loke upon this glase,
    And vew the beaten pathe of dethe,
    Which he shall one day passe;
    Which way J. Rainford Kellingworth,
    With patient mind, have gone,--
    Whose body here, as death hath changed,
    Lies covered with this stone;
    When dust to dust is brought again,
    The earth she hath her owne,--
    This shall the lot of all men be,
    Before the trumpe be blowne!"
                April 17th, 1575.


                           To Sir Edward Denny.

    "Learn, curious reader, ere thou pass,
    That once Sir Edward Denny was
    A courtier of the chamber,
    A soldier of the fielde,--
    Whose tongue could never flatter,
    Whose heart could never yield!"

                                * * * * *

On a decayed monument in Horndon Church is the following inscription:--

    "Take, gentle marble, to thy trust,
    And keep unmixed this _sacred dust_--
    Grow moist sometimes that I may see
    Thou weep'st in sympathy with me;
    And when, by him I here shall sleep,
    My ashes also safely keep--
    And from rude hands preserve us both, until
    We rise to Sion's Mount from Horndon-on-the-Hill."

                                * * * * *

                           Paul Whitehead, Esq.
                      Of Twickenham, December, 1774.

    "Unhallow'd hands, this urn forbear,
       No gems, nor Orient spoil,
    Lie here conceal'd, but what's more rare,--
    A _heart_ that knows no guile!"


On a brass plate in this church is the following inscription:--

    "Before this tabernaculle lyeth buryed Thomas Greene, some tyme bayle
    of this towne, Margaret, and Margaret, his wyves--which Thomas dyed
    the 8th day of July, 1535.  The which Thomas hath wylled a prest to
    syng in this church for the space of 20 years, for hym, his wyves,
    his children, and all men's soules.  And, moreover, he hath wylled an
    obyte, to be kept the 8th day of July, for the term of twenty years,
    for the soules aforesaid, and, at every tyme of the said obyte,
    bestowed 20s. of good lawful money of England."

                                * * * * *

On the south wall are the following lines, ih memory of Anne, wife of
William Napper, who died in 1584:--

    In token of whose vertuous lyfe,
    And constant sacred love,
    And that her memory should remaine,
    And never hence remove,
    Her husband, in his tyme of lyfe,
    This monument did leave his wyfe.


    This disease you ne'er heard tell on,--
    I died of eating too much mellon;
    Be careful, then, all you that feed--I
    Suffered because I was too greedy.


Here lies the body of Mary Ellis, daughter of Thomas Ellis, and Lydia,
his wife, of this parish.  She was a virgin of virtuous character, and
most promising hopes.  She died on the 3rd of June, 1609, aged _one
hundred and nineteen_.



                   On Anne, daughter of Joseph Baynham,
                           Died 16th Aug. 1632.

    Shee had not spunn out Thirtie dayes,
    but God from paine took her to joyes;
    Let none their trust in worldly Bliss,
    All youth and age must come to This,
    but Manner how, place where, time when,
    Is known to God, but not to men;
    Watch, Pray, Repent, and sinne forsake,
    Lest, unprepared, Death thee should take,--
    Then happy Thou that so shall dye,
    To Live with God Eternalye.


                 In Memory of Robert Berkeley, Esq. who died
                      Feb ye 2nd, 1690, aged 76 yeares.
            And Rebecca, his wife, who died August ye 16th, 1707,
                     Aged 83.  This monument was erected
                  by their most Dutiful and most obsequious
                         Daughter, Rebecca Berkeley.


    My time was come!  My days were spent!
    I was called--and away I went! ! !


On Thos. Turar and Mary, his wife.  He was Master of the Company of

    Like to the baker's _oven_ is the grave,
    Wherein the bodyes of the faithful have
    A setting in, and where they do remain,
    In hopes to rise and to be _drawn_ again;
    Blessed are they who in the Lord are dead,
    Tho' set like _dough_ they shall be drawn like _bread_!

                                * * * * *

       Ye witty mortals! as you're passing by,
       Remark that near this monument doth lie,
                   Centered in dust,
                   Described thus:
             Two Husbands, two Wives,
             Two Sisters, two Brothers,
             Two Fathers, a Son,
             Two Daughters, two Mothers,
    A Grandfather, a Grandmother, a Granddaughter,
    An Uncle, and an Aunt--their Niece follow'd after!
       This catalogue of persons mentioned here
       Was only five, and all from incest free!

                                * * * * *

    I went and 'listed in the Tenth Hussars,
    And gallopped with them to the bloody wars;
    "Die for your sovereign--for your country die!"
    To earn such glory feeling rather shy,
    Snug I slipped home.  But death soon sent me off,
    After a struggle with the hooping cough!

                                * * * * *

    Here lies poor Charlotte,
    Who died no harlot;
       But in her virginity,
    Of the age nineteen,
       In this vicinity,
    Rare to be found or seen.


    Here lies the Earl of Suffolk's fool,
    Men call'd him Dicky Pearce,
    His folly serv'd to make folks laugh,
    When wit and mirth were scarce.
    Poor Dick, alas! is dead and gone!
    What signifies to cry?
    Dickeys enough are still behind,
    To laugh at by and by.
                Buried 1728.


    Our bodies are like shoes, which off we cast,--
    Physic their coblers, and Death their last.

                                * * * * *

       Mercye, God of my misdede;
       Ladye, help at my most neede;
       On a brass plate under theyre feete,
       Reye gracious I ha to Endles lyfe at thy grete
    dome, where alle Schalle apere, Hughe Norys Groe, and
    Johan, hys wyf, now dede in Grave and Buryed here;
    Yo P'yers desyringe therre soules for chere, the X
    day of July, the yere of oure Lorde God, MDCCCCCXXIX.

This epitaph appears on a flat stone, with the effigies of a man and

                                * * * * *

                             On Two Infants.

    Two lovelier babes ye nare did se
    Than God A'mighty gaed to we,
    Bus the was o'ertaken we agur (ague) fits,
    And hare tha lies as dead as nits!


    Here lieth, ready to start, in full hopes to save his distance,
    Timothy Turf, formerly Stud Groom to Sir Mamaduke Match'em, and
    Late Keeper of the Racing Stables on Cerney Downs:--
    Was beat out of the world on the 1st of April last, by
             that inivincible
                ROCKINGHAM DEATH.
    N.B.--He lived and died an honest man.


    "Here lies I and my three daughters,
    Killed by a drinking the Cheltenham waters;
    If we had stuck to Epsom salts,
    We'd not been a lying in these here vaults."


             To the Memory of Jeremiah Buck, Esq. died 1653.

    J  Intomb'd here lies a pillar of the State,--
    E  Each good man's friend, to th' Poor compassionate,
    R  Religion's patron, just men's sure defence,
    E  Evil men's terror, guard of innocence;
    M  Matchless for virtues which still shine most bright,
    I  Impartially to all he gave their right;
    A  Alas! that few to heart do truly lay,
    H  How righteous men from earth depart away.

    B  By's death we loose, but he much gain acquires,
    V  Vnto his body rest: His soul aspires
    C  Celestial mansions where he, God on high,
    K  Knows and enjoys to all eternity.


                       On Eleanor Freeman, aet. 21.

    A Virgin blossom, in her May
    Of youth and virtues, turned to clay,--
    Rich earth, accomplish'd with those graces,
    That adorn saints in heavenly places;
    Let not death boast his conquering power,
    She'll rise a star that fell a flower.


       Thomas Tyndale dyed the 28th of April, buried 31 May, 1571.

    Ye see how death doth Spare no age nor Kynd,
    How I am lapt in Claye and dead you fynde,
    My Wife and Children lye here with me,
    No Gould, no friend, no strength, could ransome bee,
    The end of Vayne delighte and Ill Intente,
    The End of Care and Matter to repent,
    The End of faere for frynd and Worldly Wo,
    By Death we have; and of lyke thousand mo,
    And Death of Tymes in us hath made an End,
    So that nothing can ower Estate amend.
    Who would not be Content such Change to make
    For worldly things Eternal Life to take.


    On a brass plate, let into the stone, is the following:--
    Johns Yate Lond. ex Vico Basing Lane Naroec Aldermar.
    Renatus 28 Iulii 1594. Coll. Em Cantab Olim Soc.
       S. Th. B.
    Inductus in hanc Eccl. vespijs Dominicae in Albis 1628
    Mortalitatem exvit die 10 Jan Anno Doni 1668.
    Nodvs Iob rediens vt venerat ecce recessit
    Rodmerton, quondam qui tibi pastor erat.
    Is, qvia, qvae solitvs neqvit ex ambone monere
    Clamat et e tumvlo praedicat ista svo.
    Mors tva, mors Christi, fravs mondi, gloria coeli
    Et dolor inferni, svnt meditata tibi.
       Trvst not the world remember deth,
          And often think of Hell:
       Think often on the great reward
          For those that do live well.
       Repent, amend, then trvst in Christ,
          So thov in peace shalt dy;--
       And rest in bliss, and rise with Ioy
          And raine eternally.

                                * * * * *

Engraved on the Coffin of Mr. Pitcher, a noted Ale-house keeper in

    Stop mourning friends and shed a grateful tear
    Upon thy once loved Pitcher's moving bier,
    He quits this world without regret or railing,
    Life's full of pain--he always has been aleing.
    Resigned he fell contented with his lot,
    Convinced all Pitchers soon must go to Pot.


             In memory of Katherine Purye, who died Dec. 1, 1604.
                                   Ao 1604.
                             Dece 1.  AEtat. 67.
                  Quae defuncta jacet saxo tumulata sub illo
                 Bis Cathara, haud ficto nomine, dicta fuit.
                 Nomen utrumque sonat mundam, puramque piamq
                     Et vere nomen quod referebat, erat,
                    Nam puram puro degebat pectore vitam,
                    Pura fuit mundo, nunc mage pura Deo.--
                                 [Greek text]
                              Omnia pura puris,
                               Tit. 1. ver. 15.

    She whom this stone doth quietly immure
    In no feign'd way had twice the name of _Pure_:
    Pure, pious, clean, each name did signify,
    And truly was she what those names imply;
    For in pure paths, while yet she lived, she trod;
    Pure was she in this world, and now more pure with God.


    In a vault underneath lie interred several of the Saunderses, late of
    this parish, particulars the last day will disclose.--Amen.


    Here lies alas! long to be lamented, Benjamin Dobbins, Gent., who
    left his Friends sorrowing.  Feb. 2, 1760.  Aged 42.



    Here sleeps in peace a Hampshire grenadier,
    Who caught his death by drinking cold small beer;
    Soldiers beware, from his untimely fall,
    And, when your'e hot, drink strong, or none at all.

                                * * * * *

    "Severely afflicted--, yet, when most depressed,
    Resigned, he endured it as all for the best,
    Praised God for his goodness, both present and past;
    He yielded his spirit in peace at the last.

    "Let friend forbear to mourn and weep,
    While in the dust I sweetly sleep;
    This frailsome world I left behind,
    A crown of glory for to find.

    "While in this world I did remain,
    My latter days was grief and pain;
    But, when the Lord He thought it best,
    He took me into a place of rest."


                      Joseph Robins, Jany. 21, 1811.

    The blustering Winds and raging sea
    Have tossed me to and fro
    Tho' some have found their watery Grave,
    I am Anchored here below;
    Thus, at an Anchor safe I lie,
    With the surrounding Fleet,
    And hope one day we shall set sail,
    Our Saviour Christ to meet;
    My change I hope is for the best,--
    To live with Christ and be at rest.


                    William Cullum, d. 1841, aged 20.

    Weep not for me, my tender parents dear,
    Taken from your care in early years;
    Oh! grieve not, the LORD'S will be done,--
    Your dutiful and affectionate son.


              On Hannah, wife of Jeremiah Soffe, died 1832.

    When I am dead and in my Grave,
    And all my Bones are Rotten.
    This when you see, Remember me,
    Or lest I should be forgotten.


                             Thomas Burnett.

    At midnight he was called away
    From his employment on the sea,--
    Altho' his warning was but short,
    We hope he's reached the heavenly port.


                             On an Exciseman.

    No Supervisor's check he fears,
       Now, no commissioner obeys;
    He's free from cares, entreaties, tears,
       And all the heavenly orb surveys.


              To the Memory of Robert Dyer, who was drowned,
                                 Aged 19.

    Ah! cruel death that would not spare
    A loving husband was so dear;
    This world he left, and me behind,
    The world to try, and friends to find.

                                * * * * *

    Christ our Saviour is above,
    And him we hope to see--
    And all our friends that are behind
    Will soon come after we.


                                  This Stone
                              was erected by the
                               of Lodge CXI. of
                              Free and accepted
                            As a token of respect
                              for their departed
                               Jonathan Triggs,
                                who received a
                           From the Great Architect
                               Of the Universe,
                         At the hour of High Twelve,
                          on the 24 day of October.
                                  A.L. 5819.
                                  A.D. 1819.
                                Aged 38 years.


                           On a Loving Couple.

    Of life he had the better slice,
    They lived at once, and died at twice,



    A virtuous woman is 5_s._ 0_d._ {48} to her husband.

                                * * * * *

    Here a lovely youth doth lie,
    Which by accident did die;
    His precious breath was forced to yield,
    For by a waggon he was killed!

                                * * * * *

    Alas! no more I could survive,
    For I is dead and not alive;
    And thou and time no longer shalt survive,
    But be as dead as any man alive.



    That which a Being was--what is it?  Show
    That Being which it was, it is not now;
    To be what 'tis, is not to be, you see,--
    That which now is not, shall a Being be.


    Hic jacet Tom Shorthose,--
    Sine tomba, sine sheet, sine riches;
    Quid vixit,--sine gowne,
    Sine cloake, sine shirt, sine breeches.

                                * * * * *

    The Dame, who lies interred within this tomb,
    Had Rachel's charms, and Leah's fruitful womb,
    Ruth's filial love, and Lydia's faithful heart,
    Martha's just care, and Mary's better part.

                                * * * * *

A comparison of the virtues of the deceased and those of Scripture
characters is found on a monument of Sir Charles Caesar at Bennington,

Nathaniel       Daniel       Jonathan      Uzzita       Josephus
Simplicitate    Toro         Pectore       Prole        Thoro

                                * * * * *

    Beneath this stone, where now your eye you fix,
    Ann Harris lies, who died in sixty-six;
    John Harris after her his exit made
    In eighty-two, and now is with her laid.

                                * * * * *

    "Sacred to the memory of Miss Martha Gwynn,
    Who was so very pure within,
    She burst the outer shell of sin,
    And hatched HERSELF A CHERUBIM."


                Captain Henry Graves, died 17th Aug. 1702,
                              Aged 52 years.

    Here, in one Grave, more than one Grave lies--
    Envious Death at last hath gained his prize;
    No pills or potions could make Death tarry,
    Resolved he was to fetch away Old Harry.
    Ye foolish doctors, could you all miscarry?
    Great were his actions on the boisterous waves,
    Resistless seas could never conquer Graves.
    Ah! Colchester, lament his overthow,
    Unhappily, you lost him at a blow;
    Each marine hero for him shed a tear,
    St. Margaret's, too, in this must have a share.



    "Grieve not for me, my husband dear,
    I am not dead, but sleepeth here;
    With patience wait, prepare to die,
    And in a short time you'll come to I."


    "I am not grieved, my dearest life;
    Sleep on,--I have got another wife;
    Therefore, I cannot come to thee,
    For I must go and live with she."


                              John Robinson.

    Death parts the dearest Lovers for awhile,
    And makes them mourn, who only used to smile,
    But after Death our unmixt loves shall tie
    Eternal knots betwixt my dear and I.



                              On a Wrestler.

    Here lyes the Conqueror conquered,
    Valient as ever England bred;
    Whom neither art, nor steel, nor strength,
    Could e'er subdue, till death at length
    Threw him on his back, and here he lyes,
    In hopes hereafter to arise.



    Here lieth the body of Peter Isnel (30 years clerk of this parish.)

    He lived respected as a pious and mirthful 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

    The life of this clerk was just three score 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 sung 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 three score and ten,
    And now, with three wives, he waits, till again
    The trumpet shall rouse him to sing out _Amen_!


    Palmers al our faders were,--
    I, a Palmer, lived here,
    And travylled till, worne with age,
    I endyd this world's pylgrymage
    On the blyst Assention-day,
    In the cheerful month of May,
    A thousand with foure hundryd seven,
    And took my jorney hense to Heven!


             To Thomas, son of Thomas Danson, late a Preacher
          in this town.  Born Oct. 23, 1668; died Oct. 23, 1674.

    Upon October's three and twentieth day
    The world began, (as learned Annals say,)
    That was this child's birthday, on which he died,
    The world's end may in his be typified:
    Oh! happy little world, whose work is done
    Before the greater, and his rest begun.


Several years since, an inhabitant of Woolwich died, leaving a
testamentary order that his tombstone should be inscribed with the
well-known lines:--

    Youthful reader, passing by,
    As you are now, so once was I,
    As I am now, so you must be,
    Therefore prepare to follow me.

The widow of the deceased, who did not honour her lord more than the
ordinary run of wives, obeyed her late husband's injunctions, but added a
postscript of her own composition--

    To follow you I am not content,
    Until I know which way you went.


                       On Mrs. Lee and her son Tom.

    In her life she did her best,
    Now, I hope her soul's at rest;
    Also her son Tom lies at her feet,
    He liv'd till he made both ends meet.


    Sixteen years a Maiden,
    One twelve Months a Wife,
    One half hour a Mother,
    And then I lost my Life.


    Though young she was,
    Her youth could not withstand,
    Nor her protect from Death's
    Impartial hand.
    Like a cobweb, be we e'er so gay,
    And death a broom,
    That sweeps us all away.


    "Stop ringers all and cast an eye,
    You in your glory, so once was I,
    What I have been, as you may see,
    Which now is in the belfree."

                                * * * * *

    "God takes the good too good on earth to stay,
    And leaves the bad too bad to take away."

The person was very aged on whose tomb-stone the above was written!


In the village churchyard, near the Castle, is a rather singular
inscription upon a gravestone, which was put up by the deceased during
his life-time; and when first placed there, had blanks, for inserting his
age and the time of his death.  These blanks have long since been filled
up, and the whole now reads as follows:--

    "In memory of James Barham, of this parish, who departed this life
    Jan. 14, 1818, aged 93 years; and who from the year 1774, to the year
    1804, rung, in Kent and elsewhere, 112 peals, not less than 5,040
    changes in each peal, & called bobs, &c. for most of the peals; &
    April 7th & 8th, 1761, assisted in ringing 40,320 bob-majors on
    Leeds-bells, in 27 hours."


    God gave me at Kinardington in Kent,
    My native breath, which now alas is spent,
    My parents gave me Tylden Smith for name,
    I to the Park farm in this Parish came;
    And there for many ling'ring years did dwell,
    Whilst my good neighbours did respect me well.
    But now my friends, I go by Nature's call,
    In humble hopes my crimes will measure small.
    Years following years steal something every day,
    And lastly steal us from ourselves away.
    Life's span forbids us to extend our cares,
    And stretch our hopes beyond our fleeting years.
    Mary Farminger, my wife, from East Marsh place,
    Lies mouldering here like me, in hopes of grace.

                                * * * * *

The following Epitaph is to be found in the parish church of Ightham,
erected to Mrs. Selby of the Mote House, Ightham, who was a beautiful
worker of Tapestry, whose death is said to have been caused from her
pricking her finger when working one Sunday.  There is a marble figure of
her, holding a steel needle in her hand, and underneath is the following

                She was a Dorcas,
    Whose Curious needle turned the abused stage
    Of this lov'd world, into the goldenage,
    Whose pen of steele, and silken inck unroll'd
    The acts of Jonah in records of gold,
    Whose art disclosed that Plot, which had it taken,
    Rome had tryumphed, and Britains wall 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.
                            Died 1641


    Here lyeth the Body of Mary the daughter of Wm Maiss & Mary his Wife,
    who died Sept. 9, 1703, aged 22 years.

    Here lyes a piece of Heaven, t'others above,
    Which shortly goes up to the World of Love,
    The Brightest Sweetest Angels must convey
    This spotless Virgin on the starry way;
    That glittering _quire_ sings but a lisping song,
    Till she appears amidst the shining throng.


                             Robert Needler.

    My resting road is found
    Vain hope and hap adieu,
    Love whom you list
    Death hath me rid from you.
    The Lord did me from _London_ bring,
    To lay my body close herein.
    I was my father's only heir,
    And the first my mother bare.
    But before one year was spent
    The Lord his messenger for me sent.


                             Rebecca Rogers.

    A house she hath it's 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 money too this Cell is free,
    To such a house who would not tenant be.

                                * * * * *

                    Henry Jeffry, leaving 8 children.

    A faithful friend, a father dear,
    A loving husband lieth here;
    My time is past, my glass is run,
    My children dear, prepare to come.


    My wife lies here beneath
    Alas! from me she's flown,
    She was so good, that Death
    Would have her for his own.



                         On John Scott, a Brewer.

    Poor John Scott lies buried here,
    Tho' one he was both _stout_ and _hale_,
    Death stretched him on this _bitter bier_,
    In another world he _hops_ about.


    My death did come to pass,
    Thro' sitting on the derty grass;
    Here I lie where I fell,
    If you seek my soul go to Hell.

                                * * * * *

                      On a profligate Mathematician.

    Here lies John Hill,
    A man of skill,
    His age was five times ten:
    He ne'er did good,
    Nor ever would,
    Had he lived as long again.


    The world is full of crooked streets,
    Death is a place where all men meets,
    If life were sold, that men might buy,
    The rich would live, the poor must die.


            On Paul Fuller and Peter Potter, buried near each

    'Tis held by Peter and by Paul,
    That when we fill our graves or urns,
    Ashes to ashes crumbling fall,
    And dust to dust once more returns.
    So here a truth unmeant for mirth,
    Appears in monumental lay;
    Paul's grave is filled with Fuller's earth,
    And Peter's crammed with Potter's clay.


                          Tim's Bobbin's Grave.

    "Here lies John and with him Mary,
    Cheek by jowl and nevery vary;
    No wonder they so well agree,
    Tim wants no punch, and Moll no tea."


In Nichols's history of Leicestershire, is inserted the following
Epitaph, to the memory of Theophilus Cave, who was buried in the chancel
of the Church of Barrow-on-Soar:--

    "Here in this Grave there lies a Cave,
    We call a Cave a Grave;
    If Cave be Grave, and Grave be Cave,
    Then reader, judge, I crave,
    Whether doth Cave here lie in Grave,
    Or Grave here lie in Cave:
    If Grave in Cave here buried lie,
    Then Grave where is thy victory?
    Go, reader, and report here lies a Cave,
    Who conquers death, and buyes his own Cave."


    The world's an Inn, and I her guest:
    I've eat and drank and took my rest,
    With her awhile, and now I pay
    Her lavish bill and go my way.


                      Francis Fox, vicar, died 1662.

    My debt to Death is paid unto a sand,
    And pay thou must, that there doth reading stand;
    And am laid down to sleep, till Christ from high
    Shall raise me, although grim Death stand by.


                          Mary Hill, died 1784.

    With pain and sickness wasted to a bone,
    Long time to gracious Heaven I made my moan;
    Then God at length to my complaint gave ear,
    And sent kind Death to ease my pain and care.
    Physicians could no longer save the life
    Of a tender mother and a loving wife.


The following quaint memorials of the unhonoured dead, are by the
minister of the small and retired village of Waddingham. They have, at
all events, the charm of originality, and were long ago inscribed in that
quiet nook, where "many a holy text around is strewn, teaching the rustic
moralist to die."

    In love we liv'd, in peace did part,
    All tho it cot us to the heart.
    O dear--what thoughts whe two had
    To get for our 12 Children Bread;
    Lord! send her health them to maintain:--
    I hope to meet my love again.

                                * * * * *

    O angry death yt would not be deny'd,
    But break ye bonds of love so firmly ty'd!
    She was a loving wife, a tender nurse,
    And a faithful friend in every case.


                         On Henry Fox, a weaver.

    Of tender threads this mortal web is made,
    The woof and warf, and colours early fade;
    When pow'r divine awakes the sleeping dust,
    He gives immortal garments to the just.

                                * * * * *

On the south side of the Sleaford Church, sculptured in the cornice of
the water-table, is the following inscription:--

    Here lyeth William Harebeter, and Elizabeth, his wife.
    Cryest ihu graunte yem everlastyng lyfe.

It is noticed in Gough's great work on Sepulchral Monuments, where,
speaking of inscriptions cut on the ledges of stones, or raising them in
high relief, he says, "Of this kind on public buildings, I know not a
finer sample than in the water-table, on the south side of Sleaford

                                * * * * *

                            On William Gibson.

    Who lies here?--Who do you think?
    'Tis poor WILL GIBSON,--give him some drink;
    Give him some drink, I'll tell you why,
    When he was living, he always was dry.


Peck has given from the Palmer MS. the following Epitaph, than which
nothing can be more pompous or ridiculous:--

                      On a monument erected in 1735.

                               Near this place,
                               lye the remains
                           of Edward Barkham, Esq.
                   Who in his life time at his own expense
               Erected the stately altar piece in this church;
                        Furnished the communion table
                   With a very rich crimson velvet carpet,
             a cushion of the same, and a beautiful Common Prayer
                       Likewise with two large flagons,
                a chalice with a cover, together with a paten,
                             All of silver plate.
                    But above all (& what may very justly
                    preserve his name to latest posterity)
                         he gave and devised by will
           To the curate of Wainfleet St. Mary's and his successor
                                   for ever
          The sum of 35 pounds. per ann. (over and above his former
                            with this clause, viz.
                 'provided the said curate and his successors
                     do and shall read prayers and preach
                   once every Sunday in the year for ever.'
            So extraordinary an instance of securing a veneration
                   for the most awful part of our religion,
                       And so rare and uncommon a zeal
                For promoting God's worship every Lord's Day.


    Near this place are interred the wives of Richard Jessap;
    viz.--Alice, on Sept. 27, 1716, aged 25, and Joanna, on Aug. 31,
    1720, aged 29.

    How soon ye objects of my love
    By death were snatcht from me;
    Two loving matrons they did prove,
    No better could there be.
    One child the first left to my care,
    The other left me three.
    Joanna was beyond compare,
    A phoenix rare was she;
    Heaven thought her sure too good to stay
    A longer time on earth,
    In childbed therefore as she lay,
    To God resign'd her breath.


                            Here lyeth the body of
                           Michael Honeywood, D.D.
                      Who was grandchild, and one of the
                    Three hundred and sixty-seven persons,
                 That Mary the wife of Robert Honeywood, Esq.
                           Did see before she died,
                         Lawfully descended from her,
                 Sixteen of her own body, 114 grand children,
              288 of the third generation, and 9 of the fourth.
                                Mrs. Honeywood
                            Died in the year 1605,
                       And in the 78th year of her age.


    John Palfreyman, who is buried here,
    Was aged four & twenty year;
    And near this place his mother lies;
    Likewise his father, when he dies.


    Here Lies the body of Old Will Loveland,
    He's put to bed with a shovel, and
    Eased of expenses for raiment and food,
    Which all his life-time he would fain have eschewed.
    He grudged his housekeeping his children's support,
    And laid in his meat of the cagge-mag sort.
    No fyshe or fowle touched he when t'was dearly Bought,
    But a Green taile or herrings a score for a groate.
                No friend to the needy
                His wealth gather'd speedy,
       And he never did naught but evil,
                He liv'd like a hogg,
                He died like a dogg,
       And now he rides post to the devil.


    In remembrance of that prodigy of nature, Daniel Lambert, a native of
    Leicester, who was possessed of an excellent and convivial mind, and
    in personal greatness he had no competitor. He measured three feet
    one inch round the leg; nine feet four inches round the body, and
    weighed 52 stone 11 lb. (14 lb. to the stone.) He departed this life
    on the 21st of June 1809, aged 39 years.  As a testimony of respect,
    this Stone is erected by his friends in Leicester.



                              On Mary Angel.

    To say an angel here interr'd doth lye,
    May be thought strange, for angels never dye;
       Indeed some fell from heav'n to hell;
          Are lost and rise no more;
       This only fell from death to earth,
          Not lost, but gone before;
    Her dust lodg'd here, her soul perfect in grace,
    Among saints and angels now hath took its place.

                                * * * * *

                             On Daniel Saul.

    Here lies the body of Daniel Saul,
    Spitalfield's weaver--and that's all.

                                * * * * *

                             William Wheatly.

    Whoever treadeth on this stone,
       I pray you tread most neatly;
    For underneath the same doth lie
       Your honest friend, Will Wheatly.


                             (In the Abbey.)

    Beneath this stone there lies a scull,
    Which when it breath'd was wondrous droll;
    But now 'tis dead and doom'd to rot,
    This scull's as wise, pray is it not?
    As Shakspear's, Newton's, Prior's, Gay's,
    The Wits, the sages of their days.

                                * * * * *

                              On John Ellis.

    Life is certain, Death is sure,
    Sin's the wound, and Christ's the cure.

                                * * * * *

                            On Admiral Blake,
                        Who died in August, 1657.

    Here lies a man made Spain and Holland shake,
    Made France to tremble, and the Turks to quake;
    Thus he tam'd men, but if a lady stood
    In 's sight, it rais'd a palsy in his blood;
    Cupid's antagonist, who on his life
    Had fortune as familiar as a wife.
    A stiff, hard, iron soldier, for he
    It seems had more of Mars than Mercury;
    At sea he thunder'd, calm'd each rising wave,
    And now he's dead sent thundering to his grave.

                                * * * * *

    In Parliament, a Burgess Cole was placed,
    In Westminster the like for many Years,
    But now with Saints above his Soul is graced,
    And lives a Burgess with Heav'n's Royal Peers.


    Underneath where as you see,
    There lies the body of Simon Tree.


    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 well lie here alone,
    But here lies one More, and that's More than one.


                             On William Bird.

    One charming Bird to Paradise is flown,
       Yet are we not of comfort quite bereft:
    Since one of this fair brood is still our own,
       And still to cheer our drooping souls is left.
    This stays with us while that his flight doth take,
       That earth and skies may one sweet concert make.


                             On Walter Good.

    A thing here singular this doth unfold,
    Name and nature due proportion hold;
    In real goodness who did live his days,
    He cannot fail to die well, to his praise.


                             On Gervase Aire.

    Under this marble fair,
    Lies the body entomb'd of Gervase Aire:
    He dyd not of an ague fit,
    Nor surfeited by too much wit,
    Methinks this was a wondrous death,
    That Aire should die for want of breath.


                           On Sir Henry Croft.

    Six lines this image shall delineate:--
       High Croft, high borne, in spirit & in virtue high,
    Approv'd, belov'd, a Knight, stout Mars his mate,
       Love's fire, war's flame, in heart, head, hand, & eye;
    Which flame war's comet, grace, now so refines,
       That pined in Heaven, in Heaven and Earth it shines.


    Poor Ralph lies beneath this roof, and sure he must be blest,
    For though he could do nothing, he meant to do the best,
    Think of your soules, ye guilty throng,
    Who, knowing what is right, do wrong.

                                * * * * *

                               On Mr. Sand.

    Who would live by others' breath?
       Fame deceives the dead man's trust.
    Even our names much change by death,
       Sand I was, but now am Dust.

                                * * * * *

        On Robert Thomas Crosfield, M.D. 1802, written by himself.

    Beneath this stone Tom Crosfield lies,
    Who cares not now who laughs or cries;
    He laughed when sober, and, when mellow,
    Was a harum scarum heedless fellow;
    He gave to none design'd offence;
    So "Honi soit qui mal y pense!"


In the churchyard on a headstone now removed, was the following
inscription to William Newberry, who was hostler to an inn & died 1695,
in consequence of having taken improper medicine given him by a fellow

    Hic jacet-Newberry Will
    Vitam finivit-cum Cochioe Pill
    Quis administravit-Bellamy Sue
    Quantum quantitat-nescio, scisne tu?
       Ne sutor ultra crepidam.


                               R. Brigham.

    The Father, Mother, Daughter, in one Grave,
    Lye slumbering here beneath the marble Stone;
    Three, one in Love, in Tomb, in hope to have
    A joyful sight of him that's Three in One.


                             On Stephen King.

    Farewell, vain world, I knew enough of thee,
    And now am careless what thou say'st of me,
    Thy smiles I court not, nor thy frowns I fear,
    My soul's at rest, my head lies quiet here.
    What faults you see in me, take care to shun,
    And look at home, enough's there to be done.


                       TRANSCRIPT OF AN INSCRIPTION

        With the abbreviations and spelling, as it was taken from
                    the plate itself, June 28th, 1751.

    I pye the Crysten man that hast goe to see this:
    to pye for the soulls of them that here buryed is |
    And remember that in Cryst we be bretherne:
    the wich hath comaundid eu'ry man to py for other |
    This sayth _Robert Midleton & Johan_ his Wyf.
    Here wrappid in clay.  Abiding the mercy |
    Of Almyghty god till domesdaye.
    Wych was sutyme s'unt to s' gorge hasting knyght |
    Erle of huntingdunt passid this tnscitory lyf,
    in the yere of our Lord god m cccc...... |
    And of the moneth of ......
    On whose soull Almyghty god have m'cy amen |

    "This Inscription (says a writer in _The Gentleman's Magazine_, for
    1751) was in _Gothic_ letters, on a plate of brass, in the middle
    aisle, on the floor near the entrance into the chancel.  It contains
    six lines, the end of each is marked thus |; and it appears to have
    been laid down in the life-time of _Robert Midleton_, because neither
    the year, day, nor month are set down, but spaces left for that
    purpose.  I observe, that the inhabitants of Islington want to make
    their church older than I presume it is, and quote this inscription
    as it is in _Strype_, 1401, in support of that notion, when it is
    plain 1500, and is all that it says; and Sir G. Hastings was not
    created Earl of _Huntingdon_ till the 8th of December, 1529, so that
    this inscription must be wrote after that time.  The oldest date that
    appears anywhere about the church, is at the south-east corner of the
    steeple, and was not visible till the west gallery was pulled down,
    it is 1483; but as these figures are of a modern shape, it looks as
    if it was done in the last century; the old way of making these
    characters was in _Arabic_, and not as they are now generally made."

                                * * * * *

    She's gone: so, reader, must you go.  But where?

                                * * * * *

                           On Lady Molesworth.

    A peerless matron, pride of female life,
    In every state, as widow, maid, or wife;
    Who, wedded to threescore, preserv'd her fame,
    She lived a phoenix, and expired in flame.


                              William Lamb.

    O Lamb of God which Sin didst take away,
       And as a Lamb was offered up for Sin.
    Where I poor Lamb went from thy Flock astray,
       Yet thou, O Lord, vouchsafe thy Lamb to Winn
       Home to thy flock, and hold thy Lamb therein,
    That at the Day when Lambs and Goats shall sever,
    Of thy choice Lambs, Lamb may be one for ever.


                        Mary Gaudy, Aged 22, 1671.

    This fair young Virgin for a nuptial Bed
    More fit, is lodg'd (sad fate!) among the Dead,
    Storm'd by rough Winds, so falls in all her pride,
    The full blown rose design'd t' adorn a Bride.


    Here are deposited the remains of Mrs. Ann Floyer, the beloved wife
    of Mr. Rd Floyer, of Thistle Grove, in this parish, died on Thursday,
    the 8th of May, /23.  God hath chosen her as a pattern for the other


    Keep well this pawn, thou marble chest,
    Till it be called for, let it rest;
    For while this jewel here is set,
    The grave is but a cabinet.


    My wife she's dead, and here she lies,
    There's nobody laughs, and nobody cries;
    Where she's gone, and how she fares,
    Nobody knows, and nobody cares.


    Here lies Dame Dorothy Peg,
    Who never had issue except in her leg,
    So great was her art, and so deep was her cunning,
    Whilst one leg stood still the other kept running.


The illustrious Hogarth is buried in this churchyard, and the following
lines, by David Garrick, are inscribed on his tomb:--

    Farewell! great painter of mankind,
       Who reached the noblest point of art,
    Whose pictur'd morals charm the mind,
       And through the eye correct the heart.
    If genius fire thee, reader stay,
       If nature move thee, drop a tear,
    If neither touch thee, turn away,
       For Hogarth's _honour'd dust_ lies here.


    Here lyeth, wrapt in clay,
    The body of William Wray;
    I have no more to say.


         On Theodore, King of Corsica, written by Horace Walpole.

                         Near this place is interred.
                          Theodore, King of Corsica,
                    Who died in this parish Dec. 11, 1756,
              Immediately after leaving the King's Bench prison,
                   By the benefit of the Act of Insolvency,
                     In consequence of which he resigned
                            His Kingdom of Corsica
                        For the use of his creditors.

    The grave great teacher to a level brings
    Heroes and beggars, galley slaves and kings,
    But Theodore this moral learn'd ere dead,
    Fate pour'd its lessons on his living head,
    Bestowed a kingdom and denied him bread.



    Here or elsewhere (all's one to you or me),
    Earth, air, or water, gripes my ghostly dust,
    None knows how soon to be by fire set free;
    Reader, if you an old try'd rule will trust,
    You'll gladly do and suffer what you must.
    My time was spent in serving you and you.
    And death's my pay, it seems, and welcome too.
    Revenge destroying but itself, while I
    To birds of prey leave my old cage and fly;
    Examples preach to the eye--care then (mine says)
    Not how you end, but how you spend your days.

                                * * * * *

    For thirty years secluded from mankind,
    Here Marten lingered.  Often have these walls
    Echoed his footsteps, as with even tread
    He paced around his prison.  Not to him
    Did Nature's fair varieties exist,
    He never saw the sun's delightful beams,
    Save when through yon high bars he poured
    A sad and broken splendour.

                                * * * * *

In the passage leading from the nave to the north aisle in this church,
is interred the body of Henry Marten, one of the Judges who presided at
the trial of Charles 1st with the following Epitaph over him, written by

                Here Sept. 9th 1680,
                      was buried
             A true born Englishman.
    Who, in Berkshire was well known
    To love his country's freedom like his own,
    But being immured full twenty years,
    Had time to write as doth appear.


    John Lee is dead, that good old man,
    You ne'er will see him more,
    He used to wear an old brown Coat,
    All buttoned down before.

                                * * * * *

    Here lyeth entombed the body of Theodoric, King of Morganuch, or
    Glamorgan, commonly called St. Theodoric, and accounted a martyr,
    because he was slain in a battle against the Saxons (being then
    Pagans) and in defence of the Christian religion.  The battle was
    fought at Tynterne, where he obtained a great victory.  He died here,
    being on his way homewards, three days after the battle; having taken
    order with Maurice his son, who succeeded him in the kingdom, that in
    the same place he should happen to decease, a church should be built
    and his body buried in the same, which was accordingly performed in
    the year 600.



                            Miles Branthwaite.

    If Death would take an answer, he was free
    From all those seats of ills that he did see,
    And gave no measure that he would not have
    Given to him as hardly as he gave:
    Then thou, Miles Branthwaite, might have answer'd Death,
    And to be so moral might boyle breath,
    Thou wast not yet to die.  But be thou blest,
    From weary life thou art gone quiet to rest,
    Joy in the freedom from a prison, thou
    Wast by God's hands pluckt out but now,
    Free from the dust and cobwebs of this vale;
    And richer art thou by the heavenly bail
    Than he that shut thee up.  This heap of stones
    To thy remembrance, and to chest thy bones,
    Thy wife doth consecrate; so sleep till then,
    When all graves must open, all yield up their men.


                              Thomas Legge.

    That love that living made us two but one,
    Wishes at last we both may have this tomb.
    The head of Gostlin still continues here,
    As kept for Legge, to whom it was so dear.
    By death he lives, for ever to remain,
    And Gostlin hopes to meet him once again.

                                * * * * *

    Sarah York this life did resigne
    On May the 13th, 79.

                                * * * * *

    Here lies the body of honest Tom Page,
    Who died in the 33rd year of his age.

                                * * * * *

On Bryant Lewis, who was barbarously murdered upon the heath near
Thetford, Sept. 13, 1698.

    Fifteen wide wounds this stone veils from thine eyes,
    But reader, hark their voice doth pierce the skies.
    Vengeance, cried Abel's blood against cursed Cain,
    But better things spake Christ when he was slain.
    Both, both, cries Lewis 'gainst his barbarous foes,
    Blood, Lord, for blood, but save his soul from woe,

                                * * * * *

                                John Powl.

    Though Death hath seized on me as his prey,
    Yet all must know we have a judgment day,
    Therefore whilst life on earth in you remain,
    Praise all your God who doth your lives maintain,
    That after death to glory he may us raise,
    Yield to His Majesty honour, laud, and praise.

                                * * * * *

                               Henry Hall.

    The phoenix of his time
    Lies here but sordid clay;
    His thoughts were most sublime;
    His soul is sprung away.
    Then let this grave keep in protection
    His ashes until the resurrection,

                                * * * * *

                            Urith Leverington.

    The night is come; for sleep, lo! here I stay,
    My three sweet babes sleep here--we wait for day.
    That we may rise, and up to bliss ascend,
    Where crowns and thrones, and robes shall us attend.
    Thy worst is past, O Death; thous't done thy part,
    Thou could'st but kill, we fear no second dart.


                          Thos Heming--Attorney.

    Weep, widows, orphans; all your late support,
    Himself is summon'd to a higher court:
    Living he pleaded yours, but with this clause,
    That Christ at death should only plead his cause.


                            Mrs. Sarah Mills,
                            Mrs. Rebecca Ward.

    Under this stone, in easy slumber lies
    Two dusty bodies, that at last shall rise:
    Their parted atoms shall again rejoin,
    Be cast into new moulds by hands divine.


                                John Kett.

    Though we did live so many years,
    Prepare, O youth, for Death,
    For if he should at noon appear,
    You must give up your breath.


                             William Salter.

    Here lies Will Salter, honest man,
    Deny it, Envy, if you can;
    True to his business and his trust,
    Always punctual, always just;
    His horses, could they speak, would tell
    They loved their good old master well.
    His up-hill work is chiefly done,
    His stage is ended, race is run;
    One journey is remaining still,
    To climb up Sion's holy hill.
    And now his faults are all forgiven,
    Elijah-like, drives up to heaven,
    Takes the reward of all his pains,
    And leaves to other hands the reins.


    I am not dead, but sleepeth here,
    And when the trumpet sound I will appear.
    Four balls through me pierced their way,
    Hard it was, I had no time to pray.
    The stone that here you do see
    My comrades erected for the sake of me.


            Acrostic Epitaph on Robert Porter, a noted miser.

    R  iches and wealth I now despise,
    O  nce the delight of heart and eyes;
    B  ut since I've known the vile deceit,
    E  nvy has met its own defeat.
    R  egardless of such empty toys,
    T  ell all to seek for heavenly joys.
    P  ull'd down by age and anxious cares,
    O  ppressed am I by dismal fears,
    R  elating to my future state,
    T  o know what then will be my fate.
    E  ternal God! to Thee I pray
    R  emove these fearful doubts away.


                               On a Lawyer.

    Here lieth one, believe it if you can,
    Who tho' an attorney was an honest man,
    The gates of heaven shall open wide,
    But will be shut against all the tribe beside.


    My grandfather was buried here,
    My cousin Jane, and two uncles dear;
    My father perished with a mortification in his thighs,
    My sister dropped down dead in the Minories.
    But the reason why I am here, according to my thinking,
    Is owing to my good living and hard drinking,
    Therefore good Christians, if you'd wish to live long,
    Beware of drinking brandy, gin, or anything strong.


    When on this spot, affection's down-cast eye
       The lucid tribute shall no more bestow;
    When Friendship's breast no more shall heave a sigh,
       In kind remembrance of the dust below;

    Should the rude Sexton, digging near this tomb,
       A place of rest for others to prepare,
    The vault beneath, to violate, presume,
       May some opposing Christian cry, "Forbear--

    "Forbear, rash mortal, as thou hop'st to rest,
       When death shall lodge thee in thy destin'd bed,
    With ruthless spade, unkindly to molest
       The peaceful slumbers of the kindred dead!"


                               On an Actor.

    "Sacred to the memory of THOMAS JACKSON, Comedian, who was engaged
    December 21st, 1741, to play a comic cast of characters in this great
    theatre, the world, for many of which he was prompted by nature to
    excel--The season being ended--his benefit over--the charges all
    paid, and his account closed, he made his exit in the tragedy of
    Death, on the 17th of March, 1798, in full assurance of being called
    once more to rehearsal, and where he hopes to find his forfeits all
    cleared, his cast of parts bettered, and his situation made agreeable
    by Him who paid the great stock debt, for the love He bore to
    performers in general."


                            William Scrivener,
                         Cook to the Corporation.

    Alas! alas! _Will Scriviner's_ dead, who by his art
    Could make death's skeleton edible in each part;
    Mourn, squeamish stomachs, and ye curious palates,
    You've lost your dainty dishes and your salades;
    Mourn for yourselves, but not for him i' th' least,
    He's gone to taste of a more Heav'nly feast.



                              An Innkeeper.

    Man's life is like a winter'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 is his debt who lingers out the day,
    Who goes the soonest has the least to pay;
    Death is the waiter, some few run on tick,
    And some, alas! must pay the bill to Nick!
    Tho' I owe'd much, I hope long trust is given,
    And truly mean to pay all debts in Heaven.


                            Sir Richard Worme.

    Does worm eat Worm?  Knight Worme this truth confirms,
    For here, with worms, lies Worme, a dish for worms.
    Does worm eat Worme? sure Worme will this deny,
    For Worme with worms, a dish for worms don't lie.
    'Tis so, and 'tis not so, for free from worms,
    'Tis certain Worme is blest without his worms.

                                * * * * *

                               Jane Parker.

    Heare lyeth a midwife brought to bed,
    Deliveresse delivered;
    Her body being churched here,
    Her soule gives thanks in yonder sphere.


    Here lies the body of Betty Bowden,
    Who would live longer, but she couden;
    Sorrow and grief made her decay,
    Till her bad leg card her away.


                            William Houghton.

    Neere fourscore years have I tarryed
    To this mother to be marryed;
    One wife I had, and children ten,
    God bless the living.  Amen, Amen.


    Pray for me, old Thomas Dunn,
    But if you don't, 'tis all one.

                                * * * * *

    Here lies the corpse of Susan Lee,
    Who died of heartfelt pain;
    Because she loved a faithless he,
    Who loved not her again.



    Beneath the droppings of this spout, {80a}
    Here lies the body once so stout,
              Of FRANCIS THOMPSON.
    A soul this carcase long possess'd,
    Which for its virtue was caress'd,
    By all who knew the owner best.
    The _Rufford_ {80b} records can declare
    His actions, who, for seventy year,
    Both drew and drank its potent beer.
    Fame mention not in all that time,
    In this great Butler the least crime,
              To stain his reputation.
    To Envy's self we now appeal,
    If aught of fault she can reveal,
              To make her declaration.
              Then rest, good shade, nor hell nor vermin fear;
              Thy virtues guard thy soul--thy body good strong beer.
      He died July 6, 1739, aged 83.


    From earth my body first arose,
    And now to earth again it goes:
    I ne'er desire to have it more,
    To tease me as it did before.



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

                                * * * * *

    Here lies James, of tender affection,
    Here lies Isabell, of sweet complexion,
    Here lies Katheren, a pleasant child,
    Here lies Mary, of all most mild,
    Here lies Alexander, a babe most sweet,
    Here lies Jannet, as the Lord saw meet.


    Here lieth Martin Elphinston,
    Who with his sword did cut in sun-
    der the daughter of Sir Harry
    Crispe, who did his daughter marry.
    She was fat and fulsome;
    But men will some-
    times eat bacon with their bean,
    And love the fat as well as lean.


    Wha lies here?
    Pate Watt, gin ye speer.
    Poor Pate! is that thou?
    Ay, by my soul, is 't;
    But I's dead now.


    Under this stone lies Bobbity John,
    Who, when alive, to the world was a wonder;
    And would have been so yet, had not death in a fit,
    Cut his soul and his body asunder.



                          Fair Rosomond's Tomb.

Rosomond was buried at Godstow, a small island formed by the divided
stream of the Isis, in the parish of Wolvercot, near Oxford.  The
following quaint epitaph was inscribed upon her tomb:--

    "Hic jacet in Thumba, Rosa Mundi, non Rosamunda,
    Non redolet sed olet, quae redolere solet."

                           Imitated in English.

    "Here lies not Rose the chaste, but Rose the Fair,
    Her scents no more perfume, but taint the air."

                           Another translation.

    "The Rose of the World, a sad minx,
       Lies here;--let's hope she repented:
    She doesn't smell well now, but stinks,--
    She always _used_ to be scented."


    Here doth Fayre Rosamund like any peasant lie:
    She once was fragrant, but now smells unpleasantly.

                                * * * * *

                        On Meredith--an Organist.

    Here lies one blown out of breath,
    Who lived a merry life, and died a Merideth.

                                * * * * *

                           On a Letter Founder.

    Under this stone lies honest SYL,
    Who dy'd--though sore against his will;
    Yet in his fame, he shall survive,--
    Learning shall keep his name alive;
    For he the parent was of letters,
    And _founded_, to _confound_ his betters;
    Though what those letters should contain,
    Did never once concern his brain,
    Since, therefore, Reader, he is gone,
    Pray let him not be trod upon.

                                * * * * *

    Old Vicar Sutor lieth here,
    Who had a Mouth from ear to ear,
    Reader tread lightly on the sod,
    For if he gapes, your' gone by G--.

                                * * * * *

    Here lieth the body of Ann Sellars, buried by this stone,
    Who dyed on January 15th day, 1731.
    Likewise here lies dear Isaac Sellars, my Husband and my Right,
    Who was buried on that same day come seven years, 1738.
    In seven years time there comes a change! observe, and here you'll
    On that same day come seven years, my husband's laid by me.

                                * * * * *

    E. G. Hancock, died August 3, 1666.
    John Hancock, Sen.   ----  4, ----
    John Hancock, Jun.   ----  7, ----
    Oner Hancock,        ----  7, ----
    William Hancock,     ----  7, ----
    Alice Hancock,       ----  9, ----
    Ann Hancock,         ---- 10, ----

    What havoc Death made in one family, in the course of Seven days.


                              On John Green.

    If true devotion or tryde honesty
    Could have for him got long lives liberty,
    Nere had he withered but still growne Green,
    Nor dyed but to ye Poor still helping been.
    But he is tane from us yet this we comfort have,
    Heaven hath his Soule still (Green) though body is wasting Grave,
       In progeniem filii defunctam adjacentam.
    My fruit first failed here we low ly,
    Live well then, fear not all must dy.


    Here do lye our dear boy,
    Whom God hath tain from me:
    And we do hope that us shall go to he,
    For he can never come back again to we.


    Both young and old that passeth by,
    Remember well that here lies I,
    Then think on Death, for soon too true,
    Alas twill be that here lies you.

                                * * * * *

A doctor of divinity, who lies in the neighbourhood of Oxford, has his
complaint stated for him with unusual brevity, as well as his place of

    "He died of a quinsy,
    And was buried at Binsey."



                      John Spong, Jobbing Carpenter.

    Who many a sturdy oak had lain along,
    Fell'd by Death's surer hatchet, here lies SPONG,
    Posts oft he made, but ne'er a place could get,
    And liv'd by railing, though he was no wit:
    Old saws he had, although no antiquarian,
    And stiles corrected, yet was no grammarian.



                             On an Old Maid.

    Here lies the body of Martha Dias,
    Who was always uneasy, and not over pious;
    She lived to the age of threescore and ten,
    And gave that to the worms she refused to the men.

                                * * * * *

                             On a Watchmaker.

    Thy movements, Isaac, kept in play,
    Thy wheels of life felt no decay
       For fifty years at least;
    Till, by some sudden, secret stroke,
    The balance or the mainspring broke,
       And all the movements ceas'd.


    August 7th, 1714, Mary, the wife of Joseph Yates, of Lizard Common,
    within the parish, was buried, aged 127 years.  She walked to London
    just after the Fire, in 1666; was hearty and strong at 120 years; and
    married a third husband at 92.


                              Charles Dike.

    Joyous his birth, wealth o'er his cradle shone,
    Gen'rous he prov'd, far was his bounty known;
    Men, horses, hounds were feasted at his hall,
    There strangers found a welcome bed and stall;
    Quick distant idlers answered to his horn,
    And all was gladness in the sportsman's morn.

    But evening came, and colder blew the gale,
    Means, overdone, had now begun to fail;
    His wine was finished, and he ceas'd to brew,
    And fickle friends now hid them from his view.
    Unknown, neglected, pin'd the man of worth,
    Death his best friend, his resting-place the Earth.

                                * * * * *

The following is copied from a head-stone, set up in the churchyard of
High Ercall.  Those who are fond of the sublime, will certainly rejoice
over this precious poetical morsel:--

                              Salop, Oct. 1797.
                   ELIZABETH the Wife Of RICHARD BAARLAMB,
                passed to Eternity on Sunday, the 21st of May,
                      1797, in the 71st year of her age.

    When terrestrial all in Chaos shall Exhibit effervescence,
    Then Celestial virtues in their most Refulgent Brilliant essence,
    Shall with beaming Beauteous Radiance, thro' the ebullition Shine;
    Transcending to Glorious Regions Beatifical, Sublime.


    On a Thursday she was born,
    On a Thursday made a bride,
    On a Thursday put to bed,
    On a Thursday broke her leg, and
    On a Thursday died.



                          Sarah Higmore, aet. 6.

    Ye modern fair, who'er you be,
       This Truth we can aver:
    A lesson of humility
       You all may learn from her.
    She had what none of you can boast,
       With all your Wit and Sense--
    She had what you, alas! have lost,
       And that was--Innocence.


                              James Waters.

    Death, traversing the western road,
    And asking where true merit lay,
    Made in this town a short abode,
    And took this worthy man away.


                                John Webb,

          Son of John and Mary Webb, Clothiers, who died of the
                   measles, May 3d, 1646, aged 3 years.

       How still he lies!
       And clos'd his eyes,
    That shone as bright as day!
       The cruel measles,
       Like _clothier's teasels_,
    Have scratched his life away.

       _Cochineal red_,
       His lips have fled,
    Which now are _blue_ and _black_.
       Dear pretty wretch,
       How thy limbs _stretch_,
    Like _cloth upon_ the _rack_.

       _Repress_ thy sighs,
       The husband cries,
    My dear, and not repine,
       For ten to one,
       When God's work's done,
    He'll _come off superfine_.



               On Anthony Cooke, who died on Easter Monday.

    At the due sacrifice of the Paschall Lambe,
    April had 8 days wept in showers, then came
    Leane, hungry death, who never pitty tooke,
    And cause the feast was ended, slew this Cooke.
    On Easter Monday, he lyves then noe day more,
    But sunk to rise with him that rose before;
    He's here intomb'd; a man of virtue's line
    Out reacht his yeares, yet they were seventy-nine.
    He left on earth ten children of eleven
    To keep his name, whilst himself went to heaven.


    In Mem. of Mary Maria, wife of Wm Dodd, who died Decr 12th, A.D.
    1847, aged 27.  Also of their children, Louisa, who died Decr 12th,
    1847, aged 9 months; and Alfred, who died Jany 3rd, A. D. 1848, aged
    2 years and 9 months.

    All victims to the neglect of sanitary regulation, and specially
    referred to in a recent lecture on Health in this town.

    And the Lord said to the angel that destroyed, it is enough, stay now
    thine hand.--1 Chron. xx. 17.

                                * * * * *

    In Mem. of Joseph, son of Joseph and Mary Meek, who was accidentally
    drowned in the cistern of the day school adjoining this church, April
    30th, 1845, aged 8 years.  This distressing event is recorded by the
    minister, as an expression of sympathy with the parents, and caution
    to the children of the school--a reproof to the proprietors of the
    open wells, pits and landslips; the want of fencing about which is
    the frequent cause of similar disaster in these districts; and as a
    memento to all of the uncertainty of life, and the consequent
    necessity of immediate and continued preparation for death.

                                * * * * *

    "And if any man ask you, Why do you loose him?  Then shall ye say
    unto him, Because the Lord hath need of him." {90}--Luke xix. 31.


    Near to this stone John Barnett lies,
    There's no man frets, nor no man cries,
    Where he's gone, or how he fares,
    There's no man knows, nor no man cares.


    Here Leah's fruitfulness,
       Here Rachael's beauty;
    Here lyeth Rebecca's faith,
       Here Sarah's duty.


                              Ann Jennings.

    Some have children, some have none;
    Here lies the mother of twenty-one.


    Live well--die never;
    Die well--live for ever.



The following whimsical epitaph appears upon a white marble slab, in a
conspicuous part of the church of St. Mary:--

    Near this place are deposited the remains of Gedge, Printer, who
    established the first newspaper that has been published in this town.
    Like a worn out type, he is returned to the _founder_, in the hope of
    being recast in a better and more perfect mould.


    The charnel mounted on this w     )
    Sits to be seen in funer          )
    A matron plain, domestic          )
    In housewifery a princip          )
    In care and pains continu         )
    Not slow, nor gay, nor prodig     ) all.
    Yet neighbourly and hospitab      )
    Her children seven yet living     )
    Her 67th year hence did c         )
    To rest her body natur            )
    In hope to rise spiritu           )

                                * * * * *

                   On little Stephen, a noted fiddler.

    Stephen and Time
       Are now both even;
    Stephen beat Time,
       Now Time beats Stephen.

                                * * * * *

    Life is only pain below,
    When Christ appears, then up we go.


                               John Warner.

    I Warner once was to myself,
       Now Warning am to thee,
    Both living, dying, dead I was,
       See then thou warned be.

                                * * * * *

                        On ---- More, of Norwich.

    More had I once, More would I have;
       More is not to be had.
    The first I . . . the next is vaine;
       The third is too too bad.
    If I had us'd with more regard
       The More that I did give,
    I might have made More use and fruit
       Of More while he did live.


    Here she lies, a pretty bud,
    Lately made of flesh and blood;
    Who as soon fell fast asleep
    As her little eyes did peep.
    Give her strewings, but not stir
    The earth that lightly covers her.


    Quod fuit esse quod est, quod non fuit esse quod esse.
    Esse quod est non esse, quod est non erit esse.


    What John Giles has been,
    Is what he is (a batchelor);
    What he has not been,
    Is what he is (a corpse);
    To be what he is
    Is not to be (a living creature).
    He will not have to be
    What he is not (dust).


    Here lies Jane Kitchen, who, when her glass was spent,
    Kickt up her heels, and away she went.



                              William Palin.

    Silent grave, to thee I trust
    This precious pearl of worthy dust.
    Keep it safe, O sacred tomb!
    Until a wife shall ask for room.


    Here lies the wife of Roger Martin,
    She was a good wife to Roger--that's sartain.


    The Lord saw good, I was topping off wood,
       And down fell from the tree;
    I met with a check, and I broke my blessed neck,
       And so Death topped off me.


    Sweet Saviour, Jesus, give me wings
       Of Peace and perfect Love,
    As I may move from Earthly Things,
       To rest with thee above.

    For sins and Sorrows overflow
       All earthly things so High,
    That I can't find no rest below,
       Till up to thee I fly.


    In memory of Mr. Wm  Machell, who departed this life Oct. 10, 1808.
    Aged 88 years.

    Whilst in this world I remained, my life was
    A pleasure and health and gain.  But now
    God thought best to take me to his everlasting rest,
                   And I thank God for it.


    On the South Wall of this Church is the following remarkable
    Inscription:--Elizabeth, wife of Major-Genl Hamilton, who was married
    47 years, and never did ONE thing to disoblige her Husband.


                            Sir Edward Court.

    "Alone, unarm'd, a tiger he oppress'd,
    And crush'd to death the monster of a beast:
    Thrice twenty mounted Moors he overthrew
    Singly on foot, some wounded, some he slew,
    Disperst the rest; what more could Sampson do?"

NOTE.--This is only part of the inscription, which relates that, being
attacked in the woods by a tiger, he placed himself on the side of a
pond, and when the tiger flew at him, he caught him in his arms, fell
back with him into the water, got upon him, and kept him down till he had
drowned him.


    Reader, pass on, ne'er waste your time
    On bad biography and bitter rhyme;
    For what I am, this cumb'rous clay insures,
    And what I was, is no affair of yours.


                            Thomas Greenhill.

    Under thy feet interr'd is here
    A native born in Oxfordshire;
    First life and learning Oxford gave,
    Surry him his death and grave;
    He once a Hill was fresh and Greene,
    Now withered is not to be seene;
    Earth in earth shovell'd 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 Captain John Dunch, who died in 1697, aged 67.

    Though Boreas' blasts and Neptune's waves
       Have tossed me to and fro,
    In spight of both, by God's decree,
       I anchor here below,
    Where I do now at anchor ride,
       With many of our fleet,
    Yet once again I must set sail,
       Our admiral, Christ, to meet.


                Richard Wade, died Oct. 21, 1810, aged 53.
                 Giles Wade, died Dec. 8, 1810, aged 53.

    Near together they came,
    Near together they went,
    Near together they are.



    All you that come my grave to see
    Prepare yourself to Follow me,
    Take care Young men repent in time
    For I was taken in my Prime.

    As I was going through a Barn
    I little thought of any harm,
    A piece of Timber on me fell,
    And penetrated through my Skull.

    My Eyes were Blinded I could not see,
    My Parents they did weep for Me,
    My Time was come I was Forced to go,
    And bid the World and Them Adieu.

    Just six and thirty hours I lay
    In great Pain and Agony,
    Till the Archangel bid me come,
    And called my Soul to its last Home.


A certain noble lord of no very moral life, dying, had inscribed upon his
tomb, the phrase, "Ultima Domus,"--Collins, the poet, is said to have
pencill'd those lines under the words:--

    Did he who wrote upon this wall,
       Believe or disbelieve St. Paul?
    Who says where-er it is or stands,
       There is another house not made with hands,
    Or do we gather from these words,
       That house is not a house of lords?

                                * * * * *

    Here lies an old soldier whom all must applaud,
    Who fought many battles at home and abroad;
    But the hottest engagement he ever was in,
    Was the conquest of self in the battle of sin.


                             On a Young Lady.

    I lay me down to rest me,
    And pray to God to bless me,
    And if I sleep and never wake,
    I pray to God my soul to take
    This night for Evermore--Amen.


    Vast Strong was I, but yet did dye,
    And in my Grave asleep I Lye,
    My Grave is Stoned all round about,
    But I hope the Lord will find me out.


    Oh reader! if that thou can'st read
    Look down upon this stone;
    Do all we can, Death is a man,
    What never spareth none.


    Here lies the body of Edward Hide,
    We laid him here because he died,
    We had rather
    It been his father,
    If it had been his sister
    We should not have missed her,
    But since 'tis honest Ned,
    No more shall be said.

                                * * * * *

    Here lies my poor wife, without bed or blanket,
    But dead as a door nail, God be thanked.


                         Mr. Samford, Blacksmith.

    My Sledge and hammer lie reclined,
    My Bellows, too, have lost their wind;
    My fire's extinct, my forge decayed,
    And in the dust my vice is laid;
    My coal is spent, my iron gone,
    My nails are drove, my work is done.


    I was as grass that did grow up,
    And wither'd before it grew,
    As Snails do waste within their Shells,
    So the number of my days were few.


                         Elizabeth Ellis (1757).

    If love and virtue doth conduce to grace the fair,
    These was once possessed by her who lieth here;
    But alas! by fate the object of her love was drowned.
    By death surprized in trying to save a hound.
    Which such effect had on her tender mind
    It brought her into a deep decline.
    With him her transitory bliss is fled,
    And she a cold companion of the dead.
    Since this catastrophe cannot fail to show
    How uncertain all earthly joys are here below.


    His fate was hard, but God's decree
    Was, drown'd he should lie--in the sea.



                        By a Lady on her Husband.

    Oh! cruel death, how could you be so unkind,
    To take _him_ before, and leave me behind.
    You should have taken both of us--if either,
    Which would have been more pleasant to the _survivor_.

                                * * * * *

    My time is out, my glass is run,
    I never more shan't see the sun;
    To live for ever, no man don't,
    The Lord does not think fitting on't.


                       Upon a rich Merchant's Wife.

    She was What was,
    But words are Wanting to say what a One.
    What a Wife should be,
    She was that.


On Shakspeare's Monument are engraved the following distich and lines:--

    "Judicio Pylium, genio Socratem, arte Maronem,
    Terra tegit, populus moeret, Olympus habet."

    "Stay, passenger, why dost thou go so fast?
    Read, if thou canst, what envious death hath placed
    Within this monument; Shakspeare, with whom
    Quick nature died; whose name doth deck the tomb
    Far more than cost, since all that he hath writ
    Leaves living art but page unto his wit."



                              Here lies a Wife,
                                Mary Metcalf,
                          Where I was born, or when,
                              It matters not,--
                             To whom related, or
                                By whom begot.

                                * * * * *

                          John Robinson Hunter,
                                 Aged 30.

    He lived; and died
    Unplaced, unpensioned--
    No man's heir
    Or slave.

    "Can the inhabitants of Ravenstonedale look at either of these
    monuments without blushing?  Can the freeholders of that parish look
    at the latter, and not consider it prophetically as the voice of one
    speaking from the dead?"



    "Innocence embellishes, divinely compleat,
    The pre-existing co-essence, now sublimely great.
    He can surpassingly immortalize thy theme,
    And perforate thy soul, celestial supreme.
    When gracious refulgence bids the grave resign
    The Creator's nursing protection be thine.
    So shall each perspiring aether joyfully arise,
    Transcendantly good, supereminently wise."

                                * * * * *

    In the morning I was well,
    In the afternoon from a cart I fell,
    An accident somewhat severe,
    In less than a fortnight brought me here.


    Mary Best lies buried hear,
    Her age it was just ninety year;
    Twenty-eight she liv'd a single life,
    And only four years was a wife;
    She liv'd a widow fifty-eight,
    And died January 11, eighty-eight.


    God worketh wonders now and then,
    Here lies a miller, and an honest man.



                              Mr. John Mole.

    Beneath this cold stone lies a son of the earth;
    His story is short, though we date from his birth;
    His mind was as gross as his body was big;
    He drank like a fish, and he ate like a pig.
    No cares of religion, of wedlock, or state,
    Did e'er for a moment encumber John's pate.
    He sat or he walked, but his walk was but creeping,
    And he rose from his bed--when quite tir'd of sleeping.
    Without foe, without friend, unnotic'd he died;
    Not a single soul laughed, not a single soul cried.
    Like his four-footed namesake, he dearly lov'd earth.
    So the sexton has cover'd his body with turf.

                                * * * * *

    Mammy and I together lived
       Just two years and a half;
    She went first, I followed next,
       The cow before the calf.


                      In memory of Thomas Maningly.

    Beneath this stone lies the remains,
    Who in Bromsgrove-street was slain.
    A currier with his knife did the deed,
    And left me in the street to bleed;
    But when archangel's trump shall sound,
    And souls to bodies join, that murderer
    I hope will see my soul in heaven shine.


    Pain was my portion, physic was my food,
    Grones my devotion--drugs done me no good.
    Christ was my physician--he knowed what was best,
    He took me to Himself, and put me here at rest.


                            Richard Philpots.

    To tell a merry or a wonderous tale
    Over a chearful glass of nappy Ale,
    In harmless mirth was his supreme delight,
    To please his Guests or Friends by day or night;
    But no fine tale, how well soever told,
    Could make the tyrant Death his stroak withold;
    That fatal Stroak has Laid him here in Dust,
    To rise again once more with Joy we trust.

On the upper portion of this Christian monument are carved, in full
relief, a punch-bowl, a flagon, and a bottle, emblems of the deceased's
faith, and of those pots which Mr. Philpots delighted to fill.

                                * * * * *

    "Near to this is a fine tombstone to the memory of Paradise Buckler
    (who died in 1815), the daughter of a gipsy king.  The pomp that
    attended her funeral is well remembered by many of the inhabitants.
    I have heard one of my relatives say that the gipsies borrowed from
    her a dozen of the finest damask napkins (for the coffin
    handles)--none but those of the very best quality being accepted for
    the purpose--and that they were duly returned, beautifully 'got up'
    and scented.  The king and his family were encamped in a lane near to
    my relative's house, and his daughter (a young girl of fifteen) died
    in the camp.

                                                                "C. BEDE."



    Under this stone do lie six children small,
    Of John Wittington of the North Hall.

                                * * * * *

                          On a Learned Alderman.

    Here lies William Curtis, late our Lord Mayor,
    Who has left _this here_ world, and is gone to _that there_.


    Here lies the body of poor _Frank Row_,
       Parish clerk, and grave-stone cutter;
    And this is writ to let you know,
    What _Frank_ for others us'd to do,
       Is now for _Frank_ done by another.


                           On a Marine Officer.

    Here lies, retired from busy scenes,
    A first lieutenant of marines,
    Who lately lived in gay content
    On board the brave ship _Diligent_.
    Now stripped of all his warlike show,
    And laid in box of elm below,
    Confined in earth in narrow borders,
    He rises not till further orders.


    This is to the memory of old Amos,
    Who was, when alive for hunting famous,
    But now his chases are all o'er,
    And here he's earthed--of years fourscore.
    Upon this stone he's often sat,
    And tried to read his epitaph;
    And thou who dost so at this moment,
    Shalt, ere long, somewhere lie dormant.


    We joined was in mutual love,
       And so we did remain,
    Till parted was by God above,
       In hopes to meet again.


    Hic jacet sure the fattest man,
    That Yorkshire stingo made;
    He was a lover--of his can,
    A clothier by his trade.
    His waist did measure three yards round,
    He weighed almost three hundred pounds;
    His flesh did weigh full twenty stone--
    His flesh, I say, he had no bone,
    At least 'tis said that he had none.


       Hic jacet Walter Gun,
       Some time 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.


             Wm. Rd. Phelp, a Boatswain of H.M.S. Invincible.

    When I was like you,
    For years not a few,
    On the ocean I toil'd,
    On the line I have broil'd,
    In Greenland I've shiver'd,
    Now from hardships deliver'd;
    Capsized by old Death,
    I surrendered my breath,
    And now I lay snug,
    As a bug in a rug.


    Here lies my wife,
       Here lies she;


    Here lies the body of William Wix,
    One Thousand, Seven Hundred & Sixty Six.




    A hopeful youth, and well beloved,
    Has to the earth his body bequeathed.



    Here lieth the body of Nicholas Hooker, of Conway, Gent.
    Who was the one and fortieth child of William Hooker,
    Alice his wife, and the father of twenty-seven children.
       He died on the 20th day of March, 1637.


    Dust from dust at first was taken,--
    Dust by dust is now forsaken;
    Dust in dust shall still remain,
    Till dust from dust shall rise again.



    Here lies a Church-warden,
    A choice flower in that garden,
    Joseph Critchley by name,
    Who lived in good fame
    Being gone to rest,
    Without doubt he is blest.



    All you that come our grave to see
    A moment pause and think,
    How we are in eternity
    And you are on the brink.


    Farewell, my dear and loving wife,
    Partner of the cares of life,
    And you my children now adieu,
    Since I no more can come to you.


    Beneath this yew tree
    Buried would he be,
    Because his father, he,
    Planted this yew tree.



    Who Ever hear on Sonday,
    Will practis playing at Ball,
    It may be be Fore Munday
    The devil Will Have you All.



    In health and strength unthinking of my fate,
    Death like a thief knock'd at my Bolted gate,
    I hasted down to know the reason why
    That noise was made, Death Quickly did Reply,
    For thee I Call, thy Soul is now Requir'd,
    I trembling gaz'd and Instantly Expir'd.





    Here lies John Smith
    who was shot by Col.
    Buchan and the laird
    of Lee.  Feb. 1685.
    For his adherence to the
    word of God and Scot
    land's covenanted w-
    ork of reformation,
    Rev. 12, ii.  Erected in the
    year 1731.

                                * * * * *


    When proud apostates
    did abjure Scotland's
    reformation pure And
    fill'd this land with perj
    ury and all sorts of In-
    iquity Such as would not
    with them comply They pe
    rsecute with hue and
    cry.  I in the flight
    was overtane And fo
    r the truth by them
    was slain.



                             Sir Jno. Graham.

    Here lies Sir John the Grame both right and wise,
    One of the chiefs rescued Scotland thrice,
    An better knight ne're to the world was lent
    Than was good Grame of truth and hardiment.



    Here lyes a man, who all his mortal life
    Past mending clocks but could not mend hys wyfe.
    The 'larum of his bell was ne'er sae shrill
    As was her tongue, aye clacking like a mill.
    But now he's gane--oh, whither? nane can tell--
    I hope beyond the sound o' Mally's bell.

                                * * * * *

    Here lies John Speir
    Young John?--Fy Fy.
    Old John?--Ay Ay.



    Here lie I, Martin Eldinbrode,
    Ha' mercy on my soul, Loord Gode;
    As I would do, were I Lord Gode,
    And thou wert Martin Eldinbrode.

                                * * * * *

    John McPherson
    Was a wonderful person,
    He was six feet two
    Without his shoe,
    And he was slew
    At Waterloo.

                                * * * * *

    Here lies Donald and his wife
    Janet Mac Fee,
    Aged Forty hee,
    Aged thirty shee.

                                * * * * *

    Here lieth the limbs of a lang devil,
    Wha! in his time has done much evil,
    And oft the ale wybes he opprest,
    And blest be God he's gone to rest.

                                * * * * *

    John Carnagie lies here,
    Descended of Adam and Eve,
    If any can gang higher
    He willingly gives him leave.

This epitaph is undoubtedly that from which Prior borrowed those
beautiful and well-known lines he once intended for his own monument.

                                * * * * *

    Wha lies here?
       I Johnny Dow.
    Hoo! Johnny, is that you?
       Ay, man, but a'm dead now.



                          On a drunken Cobbler.

    Enclosed within this narrow stall
    Lies one who was a friend to _awl_.
    He saved bad _soles_ from getting worse,
    But damned his own without remorse.
    And tho' a drunken life he passed,
    Yet saved his _soul_ by _mending at the last_.



                             William Rymour.

    Through Christ, T'me not inferiour
    To William the Conqueror.--Rom. 8, 37.  (! !)


                          Walter Coupar, Tailor.

    Kynd commorads! here Coupar's corpse is laid,
    Walter by name, and Tayleour to his trade,
    Both kind and true, and stout and honest-hearted,
    Condole with me that he so soon departed.
    For, Tavou, he never weyl'd and sheer
    Had better parts, nor he that's bur'yd here.


Three Scottish worthies were once appointed to compose an Epitaph on a
departed Provost: subjoined are the productions of two of them, which
were supposed to have been the means of killing the third candidate in a
fit of laughter.

    Here lies the Provost of Dundee,
    Here lies him, here lies he.
    Hi-diddle-dum, Hi-diddle-dee,
    A, B, C, D, E, F, G.

                                * * * * *

    Here lies the body of John Watson,
    Read this not with your hats on,
    For why--he was Provost of Dundee,
          Hallelujah, Hallelujee.


    Here lyes the bodeys of George Young and Isbel Guthrie, and all their
    posterity for fifty years backwards.
    November 1757.



    William Matthison here lies,
    Whose age was forty-one,
    February 17, he dies,
    Went Isbel Mitchell from,
    Who was his married wife
    The fourth part of his life.
    The soul it cannot die,
    Though the body be turned to clay,
    Yet meet again they must
    At the last day.
    Trumpet shall sound, archangels cry,
    "Come forth Isbel Mitchell and meet Will
    Matthison in the sky."


    If modesty commend a wife
    And Providence a mother,
    Grave chastity a widow's life,
    We'll not find such another
    In Haddington as Mareon Gray,
    Who here doth lie till the Domesday.

                                * * * * *

    Hout, Atropos, heard-hearted hag,
    To cut the sheugh o' Jamie Craig!
    For had he lived a wheen mae years
    He'd been o'er teugh for thy auld shears.
    But now he's gane, sae maun we a',
    Wha wres'les Death's aye shure to fa';
    Sae let us pray that we at last
    May wun frae Death a canny cast.


       "Here lies John Smith,
       Whom Death slew, for all his pith
    The starkest man in Aberlady,
    God prepare and make us ready.



    Our life's a flying shadow, God's the pole,
    The index pointing at him is our soul;
    Death's the horizon, when our sun is set,
    Which will through Christ a resurrection get.

                                * * * * *

    Here lies Mass Andrew Gray,
    Of whom ne muckle good can I say:
    He was ne Quaker, for he had ne spirit,
    He was ne Papist, for he had ne merit.
    He was ne Turk, for he drank muckle wine,
    He was ne Jew, for he eat muckle swine.
    Full forty years he preach'd and le'ed,
    For which God doomed him when he de'ed.



                              Margery Scott.

    Stop, passenger, until my life you read,
    The living may get knowledge from the dead:
    Five times five years I lived a virgin life,
    Five times five years I was a virtuous wife,
    Five times five years a widow, grave and chaste,
    Tired of the elements, I am now at rest;
    Betwixt my cradle and my grave were seen
    Eight mighty kings of Scotland and a Queen;
    Thrice did I see old Pulacy pulled down,
    And thrice the cloak did sink beneath the gown.



    John Adamson's here kept within,
    Death's prisoner for Adam's sin,
    But rests in hope that he shall be
    Let, by the second Adam, free.



    Here lies John Taggart, of honest fame,
    Of stature low, and a leg lame;
    Content he was with portion small,
    Kept a shop in Wigtown, and that's all.


A servant maid was sent by her mistress to Ben Jonson for an epitaph on
her departed husband.  She could only afford to pay half-a-guinea, which
Ben refused, saying he never wrote one for less than double that sum; but
recollecting he was going to dine that day at a tavern, he ran down
stairs and called her back.  "What was your master's name?"--"Jonathan
Fiddle, sir."  "When did he die?"--"June the 22nd, sir."  Ben took a
small piece of paper, and wrote with his pencil, while standing on the
stairs, the following:--

    On the twenty-second of June,
    Jonathan Fiddle went out of tune.

                                * * * * *

                             On Shadrach Johnson,

    Who kept the Wheatsheaf, at Bedford, and had twenty-
    four children by his first wife, and eight by his second.
    Shadrach lies here; who made both sexes happy,
    The women with love toys, and the men with nappy.

                                * * * * *

                             On a Cricketer.

    I _bowled_, I _struck_, I _caught_, I _stopt_,
       Sure life's a game of cricket;
    I _block'd_ with care, with caution popp'd,
       Yet Death has hit my _wicket_.

                                * * * * *

                       On a Puritanical Locksmith.

    A zealous locksmith died of late,
    And did arrive at heaven gate;
    He stood without and would not knock,
    Because he meant to pick the lock.

                                * * * * *

                              On John Cole,
                   Who died suddenly, while at dinner.

    Here lies Johnny Cole,
    Who died, on my soul,
       After eating a plentiful dinner.
    While chewing his crust,
    He was turned into dust,
       With his crimes undigested--poor sinner!

                                * * * * *

                         On Mr. Death, the Actor.

                     Death levels all, both high and low,
                         Without regard to stations;
                              Yet why complain,
                               If we are slain?
                    For here lies one, at least, to show,
                         He kills his own relations.

                                * * * * *

"The following reference to one departed Mr. Strange, of the legal
profession, is rather complimentary; and I have only to hope that the
fact of the case is as stated, and that the writer was not led away by
the obvious opportunity of making a point, to exaggerate the virtues of
the deceased.  It looks a little suspicious."  (_Dickens_).

    "Here lies an honest lawyer,
    And that is Strange."

                                * * * * *

"Dr. I. Letsome wrote the following epitaph for his own tombstone; but it
is not likely that he allowed his friends, or at least his patients, to
read it until he was under the turf, or out of practice:"--

    "When people's ill, they comes to I,
       I physics, bleeds, and sweats 'em;
    Sometimes they live, sometimes they die;
       What's that to I?  I. Letsome."  (_lets 'em_.)

                                * * * * *

                               On Mr. Foot.

    Here lies one Foot, whose death may thousands save;
    For Death himself has now _one Foot_ i' th' grave.

                                * * * * *

                On a Gentleman who expended his Fortune in

    John ran so long, and ran so fast,
    No wonder he ran out at last;
    He ran in debt, and then to pay,
    He distanced all--and ran away.

                                * * * * *

                               On a Miser.

    They call'd thee rich, I deem'd thee poor,
    Since, if thou dar'dst not use thy store,
    But sav'd it only for thy heirs,
    The treasure was not thine--but theirs.

                                * * * * *

Lines written by Robert of Gloucester upon King Henry the First, who died
through over-eating of his favourite fish:--

    "And when he com hom he willede of an lampreye to ete,
    Ac hys leeches hym oerbede, vor yt was feble mete,
    Ac he wolde it noyt beleve, vor he lovede yt well ynow,
    And ete as in better cas, vor thulke lampreye hym slow,
    Vor anon rygt thereafter into anguysse he drow,
    And died vor thys lampreye, thane hys owe wow."

                                * * * * *

                             On John Sydney,
                     Who died full of the Small Pox.

    In this sacred urn there lies,
    Till the last trump make it rise,
    A light that's wanting in the skies.
    A corpse inveloped with stars,
    Who, though a stranger to the wars,
    Was mark'd with many hundred scars.

    Death, at once, spent all his store
    Of darts, which this fair body bore,
    Though fewer had kill'd many more.
    For him our own salt tears we quaff,
    Whose virtues shall preserve him safe,
    Beyond the power of epitaph.

                                * * * * *

                      Upon Two Religious Disputants,
            Who are interred within a few paces of each other.

    Suspended here a contest see,
    Of two whose creeds could ne'er agree;
    For whether they would preach or pray,
    They'd do it in a different way;
    And they wou'd fain our fate deny'd,
    In quite a different manner dy'd!
    Yet, think not that their rancour's o'er;
    No! for 'tis 10 to 1, and more,
    Tho' quiet now as either lies,
    But they've a wrangle when they rise.

                                * * * * *

                   On a disorderly fellow, named Chest.

    Here lies one Chest within another.
       That chest was good
       Which was made of wood,
    But who'll say so of t'other?

                                * * * * *

                              On John Death.

    Here lies John Death, the very same
    That went away with a cousin of his name.

                                * * * * *

                        Lord Coningsby.  By Pope.

    Here lies Lord Coningsby--be civil;
    The rest God knows--perhaps the Devil.

                                * * * * *

                            On General Tulley.

    Here lies General Tulley,
    Aged 105 years fully;
    Nine of his wives beside him doth lie,
    And the tenth must lie here when she doth die.

                                * * * * *

                           A Bishop's Epitaph.

    In this house, which I have borrowed from my brethren worms, lie I,
    Samuel, by divine permission late Bishop of this Island, in hope of
    the resurrection to Eternal life.  Reader, stop! view the Lord
    Bishop's palace, and smile.

                                * * * * *

                              On a Welchman,
                     Killed by a Fall from his Horse.

    Here lies interr'd, beneath these stones,
    David ap-Morgan, ap-Shenkin, ap-Jones;
    Hur was born in Wales, hur was travell'd in France,
    And hur went to heaven--by a bad mischance.

                                * * * * *

            Card Table Epitaph on a Lady, whose Ruin and Death
                          were caused by gaming.

    Clarissa reign'd the _Queen_ of _Hearts_,
       Like _sparkling Diamonds_ were her eyes;
    But through the _Knave_ of _Clubs_, false arts,
       Here bedded by a _Spade_ she lies.

                                * * * * *

    Reader, in that peace of earth,
    In peace rest Thomas Arrowsmith.
    In peace he lived, in peace went hence,
    With God & men & conscience:
    Peace for other men he sought,
    And peace with pieces sometimes bought.
    Pacifici, may others bee,
    But ex pace factro hee.

                                * * * * *

                              Ann Mitchell.

    Loe here I lye till Trumpets sound,
    And Christ for me shall call;
    And then I hope to rise again,
       And dye no more at all.

                                * * * * *

    O Merciful Jesu that Brought
       Mans Soule from Hell;
    Have Mercy of the Soule
       of Jane Bell.

                                * * * * *

                          On a very idle Fellow.

    Here lieth one that once was born & cried,
    Liv'd several years, & then--& then--he died.

                                * * * * *

            On a Great consumer of Bread, Cheese, and Tobacco.

    Here gaffer B . . . Jaws are laid at Ease,
    Whose Death has dropped the price of Bread & Cheese.
    He Eat, he drank, he smoked, and then
    He Eat, and drank, and smoked again.
    So Modern Patriots, rightly understood,
    Live to themselves, and die for Public Good.

                                * * * * *

    Thin in beard, and thick in purse,
    Never man beloved worse;
    He went to the grave with many a curse:
    The devil and he had both one nurse.

                                * * * * *

    They were so one, that none could say
    Which of them ruled, or whether did obey,
    He ruled, because she would obey; and she,
    In so obeying, ruled as well as he.

                                * * * * *

       Good People draw near,
       There is no need of a tear,
    Merry L . . . is gone to his Bed;
       I am placed here to tell,
       Where now lies the shell,
    If he had any soul it is fled.
       Make the Bells ring aloud,
       And be joyful the croud,
    For Mirth was his favourite theme,
       Which to Praise he turned Poet,
       Its fit you should know it,
    Since he has left nothing more than his name.

                                * * * * *

                 On an Ass (by the late late Dr. Jenner).

    Beneath this hugh hillock here lies a poor creature,
    So gentle, so easy, so harmless his nature;
    On earth by kind Heav'n he surely was sent,
    To teach erring mortals the road to content;
    Whatever befel him, he bore his hard fate,
    Nor envied the steed in his high pamper'd state;
    Though homely his fare was, he'd never repine;
    On a dock could he breakfast, on thistles could dine;
    No matter how coarse or unsavoury his salad,
    Content made the flavour suit well with his palate.
    Now, Reader, depart, and, as onward you pass,
    Reflect on the lesson you've heard from an Ass.

                                * * * * *

                      On a Henpecked Country Squire.

    As father Adam first was fool'd,
       A case that's still too common,
    Here lies a man a woman rul'd,
       The devil rul'd the woman.

                                * * * * *

                               On a Potter.

    How frail is man--how short life's longest day!
    Here lies the worthy Potter, turned to clay!
    Whose forming hand, and whose reforming care,
    Has left us full of flaws.  Vile earthenware!

                                * * * * *

It was his usual custom in company when he told anything, to ask, d'ye
hear? and if any one said no, John would reply, no matter, I've said.

    Death came to John
    And whisper'd in his ear,
    You must die John,
          D'ye hear?

    Quoth John to Death
    The news is bad.
    No matter, quoth Death,
          I've said.

                                * * * * *

                             Punning Epitaph.

    Cecil Clay, the counsellor of Chesterfield, caused this whimsical
    allusion or pun upon his name to be put upon his grave-stone;--Two
    cyphers of C. C. and underneath,
    Sum quod fui, "I am what I was."

                                * * * * *

Oldys thus translates from Camden an epitaph upon a tippling red-nosed
ballad maker, of the time of Shakespeare:--

    Dead drunk, here Elderton doth lie:
    Dead as he is, he still is dry;
    So of him it may well be said,
    Here he, but not his thirst, is laid.

                                * * * * *

                              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 passion 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 pass'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 pass'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. Cumming.

    "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 Cumming."

                                * * * * *

                          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 damnata, and Caput
                           Of Boyle Godfry, 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
                  Depurate him from the Taces and Scoria of
                         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?

                                * * * * *

                               On Du Bois,
             Born in a Baggage Waggon, and killed in a Duel.

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

                                * * * * *

                      On Mr. Nightingale, Architect.

    As the birds were the first of the architect kind,
       And are still better builders than men,
    What wonders may spring from a Nightingale's mind,
       When St. Paul's was produced by a Wren.

                                * * * * *

                            On Mr. Churchill.

    Says Tom to Richard, "Churchill's dead."
       Says Richard, "Tom, you lie;
    Old Rancour the report has spread,
       But Genius cannot die."

                                * * * * *

                    On Foote, the Mimic and Dramatist,
           Who, several years before his death, lost one of his
                              nether limbs.

    Here a pickled rogue lies whom we could not preserve,
       Though his pickle was true Attic salt;
    One Foote was his name, and one leg did him serve,
       Though his wit was known never to halt.
    A most precious limb and a rare precious pate,
       With one limb taken off for wise ends;
    Yet the hobbler, in spite of the hitch in his gait,
       Never failed to take off his best friends:
    Taking off friends and foes, both in manner and voice,
       Was his practice for pastime or pelf;
    For which 'twere no wonder, if both should rejoice
       At the day when he took off himself.

                                * * * * *

                       On James Straw, an Attorney.

    Hic jacet Jacobus Straw,
    Who forty years, Sir, followed the law,
       And when he died,
       The Devil cried,
       "Jemmy, gie's your paw."

                                * * * * *

                            On Robert Sleath.

Who kept the turnpike at Worcester, and was noted for having once
demanded toll of George III., when his Majesty was going on a visit to
Bishop Hurd.

    On Wednesday last, old Robert Sleath
    Passed through the turnpike gate of death.
    To him would death no toll abate,
    Who stopped the King at Wor'ster gate.

                                * * * * *

                              On Ned Purdon.

    Here lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery free
       Who long was a bookseller's hack.
    He led such a damnable life in this world
       I don't think he'll ever come back.

                                * * * * *

                           On Stephen Remnant.

    Here's a Remnant of life, and a Remnant of death,
    Taken off both at once in a Remnant of breath.
    To mortality this gives a happy release,
    For what was the Remnant, proves now the whole piece.

                                * * * * *

A form of enigmatical epitaph is in Llandham Churchyard, Anglesea, and
has been frequently printed.  From the _Cambrian Register_, 1795 (Vol. I.
p. 441), I learn that it was translated by Jo. Pulestone, Feb. 5, 1666.
The subject of it was Eva, daughter of Meredidd ap Rees ap Howel, of
Bodowyr, and written by Arthur Kynaston, of Pont y Byrsley, son of
Francis Kynaston.

    Here lyes, by name, the world's mother,
    By nature, my aunt, sister to my mother;
    My grandmother, mother to my mother;
    My great grandmother, mother to my grandmother;
    My grandfather's daughter and his mother;
    All which may rightly be,
    Without the breach of consanguinity.

                                * * * * *

                           On Robert Pemberton.

    Here lies _Robin_, but not _Robin Hood_;
    Here lies _Robin_ that never did good;
    Here lies _Robin_ by heaven forsak'n;
    Here lies _Robin_--the devil may tak'n.

                                * * * * *

                             On a Stay Maker.

    Alive, unnumber'd stays he made,
       (He work'd industrious night and day;)
    E'en dead he still pursues his trade,
       For here _his bones will make a stay_.

                                * * * * *

                             Brevity of life.

    Man's life's a vapour,
       And full of woes;
    He cuts a caper,
       And down he goes.

                                * * * * *

                          By Boileau, the Poet.

    Here lies my wife, and Heaven knows,
    Not less for mine, than her repose!

                                * * * * *

    Here lies poor Thomas, and his Wife,
    Who led a pretty jarring life;
    But all is ended--do you see?
    He holds his tongue, and so does she.

                                * * * * *

    If drugs and physic could but save
    Us mortals from the dreary grave,
    'Tis known that I took full enough
    Of the apothecaries' stuff
    To have prolonged life's busy feast
    To a full century at least;
    But spite of all the doctors' skill,
    Of daily draught and nightly pill,
    Reader, as sure as you're alive,
    I was sent here at twenty-five.

                                * * * * *

                          Poor Jerry's Epitaph.

    Here lies poor Jerry,
    Who always seem'd merry,
       But happiness needed.
    He tried all he could
    To be something good,
       But never succeeded.
    He married two wives:
    The first good, but somewhat quaint;
    The second very good--like a saint.
       In peace may they rest.
    And when they come to heaven,
    May they all be forgiven
       For marrying such a pest.

                                * * * * *

                            On three infants.

    If you're disposed to weep for sinners dead,
    About these children trouble not your head,
    Reserve your grief for them of riper years,
    They as has never sinned can't want no tears.

                                * * * * *

                              On a Drunkard.

    The draught is drunk, poor Tip is dead.
    He's top'd his last and reeled to bed.

                                * * * * *

                        On a Rum and Milk Drinker.

    Rum and milk I had in store,
    Till my poor belly could hold no more:
    It caused me to be so fat,
    My death was owing unto that.

                                * * * * *

                       On Joseph Crump, a Musician.

    Once ruddy and plump,
    But now a pale lump,
    Beneath this safe hump,
    Lies honest Joe Crump,
       Who wish'd to his neighbours no evil,
    Who, tho' by Death's thump
    He's laid on his rump,
    Yet up he shall jump
    When he hears the last trump,
       And triumph o'er Death and the Devil.

                                * * * * *

                           On Sir Isaac Newton.

    Nature and Nature's laws lay hid in night,
    God said, "Let Newton be!" and all was light.

                                * * * * *

                               An Attorney.

    Here lieth one who often lied before,
    But now he lies here he lies no more.

                                * * * * *

                             On Peter Wilson,
                             Who was drowned.

    Peter was in the ocean drown'd,
       A careless, hapless creature!
    And when his lifeless trunk was found,
       It was become Salt Peter.

                                * * * * *

    Here lies the body of an honest man.
    And when he died he owed nobody nothing.

                                * * * * *

    Good Friend for Jesus SAKE forbeare
    To diGG T--E Dust encloAsed HERE.
    Blest be T--E Man Y--T spares T--Es Stones
    And curst be He Y--T moves my Bones.

                                * * * * *

    Underneath this stone doth lie,
    As much beauty as could die;
    Which, when alive, did vigour give
    To as much beauty as could live.

                                * * * * *

                     To the memory of Mary Clow, &c.

    A vertuous wife, a loving mother,
    And one esteemed by all that knew her.

    And to be short, to her praise, she was the woman that Solomon speaks
    of in the xxxi. chapter of the book of Proverbs, from the 10th verse
    to the end.

                                * * * * *

                               Old Epitaph.

    As I was so are ye,
    As I am You shall be,
    That I had that I gave,
    That I gave that I have,
    Thus I end all my cost,
    That I left that I lost.

                                * * * * *

                        Epitaph on a Bell Ringer.

    Stephen & time now are even,
    Stephen beat time, now time's beat Stephen.

                                * * * * *

                                  Here lies
                               Elizabeth Wise.
                     She died of Thunder sent from Heaven
                                   In 1777.

                                * * * * *

                  On a Family cutt off by the Small Pox.

    At once depriv'd of life, lies here,
    A family to virtue dear.
    Though far remov'd from regal state,
    Their virtues made them truly great.
    Lest one should feel the other's fall,
    Death has, in kindness, seiz'd them all.

                                * * * * *

George Hardinge much indulged himself in versifying, and a curious
instance in illustration occurred at Presteigne, in the spring of 1816, a
few hours before his decease.  An application was made by Messrs.
Tippens, addressed to the judge "if living, or his executors," for the
payment of a bill.  The answer was penned by the Judge only three hours
prior to his death, and was as follows:--

    "Dear Messrs. Tippens, what is fear'd by you,
    Alas! the melancholy circumstance is true,
    That I am dead; and, more afflicting still,
    My legal assets cannot pay your bill.
    To think of this, I am almost broken hearted,
    Insolvent I, this earthly life departed;
    Dear Messrs. T., I am yours without a farthing,
    For executors and self,

                                                         George Hardinge."

                                * * * * *

    The manner of her death was thus,
    She was druv over by a Bus.

                                * * * * *

    Here lies Martha wife of Hugh,
    Born at St Ansell's, buried at Kew,
    Children in wedlock they had five,
    Three are dead & two are alive,
    Those who are living had much rather
    Die with the Mother than live with the Father.

                                * * * * *

                                  "The Body
                         BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, Printer,
                       (like the cover of an old book,
                            its contents torn out,
                 and stripped of its lettering and gilding),
                          lies here, 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
                                 THE AUTHOR!"

                                * * * * *

                            Singular Epitaph.

    Careless and thoughtless all my life,
    Stranger to every source of strife,
    And deeming each grave sage a fool,
    The law of nature was my rule.
    By which I learnt to duly measure
    My portion of desire and pleasure.
    'Tis strange that here I lie you see,
    For death must have indulged a whim,
    At any time t' have thought of me,
    Who never once did think of him.

                                * * * * *

                           On Earle the boxer.

    Here lies James Earle the Pugilist, who on the 11th of April 1788
    gave in.

                                * * * * *

    She lived genteely on a small income.

                                * * * * *

                          Epitaph on a Gamester.

    Here lies a gamester, poor but willing,
    Who left the room without a shilling,
    Losing each stake, till he had thrown
    His last, and lost the game to Death;
    If Paradise his soul has won,
    'Twas a rare stroke of luck i'faith!

                                * * * * *

             On the death of Miss Eliza More, aged 14 years.

    Here lies who never lied before,
    And one who never will lie More,
    To which there need be no more said,
    Than More the pity she is dead,
    For when alive she charmed us More
    Than all the Mores just gone before.

                                * * * * *

                       On a Wife (by her Husband.)

    Beneath this stone lies Katherine, my wife,
    In death my comfort, and my plague through life.
    Oh! liberty--but soft, I must not boast;
    She'll haunt me else, by jingo, with her ghost!

                                * * * * *

"Here is a gentlewoman, who, if I may so speak of a gentlewoman departed,
appears to have thought by no means small beer of herself:"--

    A good mother I have been,
    Many troubles I have seen,
    All my life I've done my best,
    And so I hope my soul's at rest.

                                * * * * *

On the death of a most amiable and beautiful young lady, of the name of

                              BY MR. BISSET.

    DEATH long had wish'd within his reach,
    So sweet, so delicate a PEACH:
    He struck the Tree--the trunk lay mute;
    But _Angels_ bore away the _Fruit_!

                                * * * * *

    Here lies my poor wife,
    Without bed or blanket,
    But dead as a door nail,
    God be thanked.

                                * * * * *

                       Epitaph on a violent Scold.

    My spouse and I full many a year
    Liv'd man and wife together,
    I could no longer keep her here,
    She's gone--the Lord knows whither.

    Of tongue she was exceeding free,
    I purpose not to flatter,
    Of all the wives I e'er did see,
    None sure like her could chatter.

    Her body is disposed of well,
    A comely grave doth hide her,
    I'm sure her soul is not in hell,
    For old Nick could ne'er abide her.

    Which makes me guess she's gone aloft,
    For in the last great thunder,
    Methought I heard her well known voice
    Rending the skies asunder.

                                * * * * *

                On a Scolding Wife who died in her sleep.

    Here lies the quintessence of noise and strife,
    Or, in one word, here lies a _scolding wife_;
    Had not Death took her when her mouth was shut,
    He durst not for his ears have touched the _slut_.

                                * * * * *

    Here lies my wife a sad slattern and shrew,
    If I said I regretted her--I should lie too.

                                * * * * *

                               On a Scold.

    Here lies, thank God, a woman who
    Quarrell'd and stormed her whole life through,
    Tread gently o'er her mould'ring form,
    Or else you'll raise another storm.

                                * * * * *

                       On a Wife (by her Husband).

    Here lies my poor wife, much lamented,
    She's happy, and I'm contented.

                                * * * * *

    One was our thought, One life we fought,
       One rest we both intended,
    Our bodies have to sleepe one grave,
       Our soules to God ascended.

                                * * * * *

                            Conjugal Epitaph.

    Here rest my spouse, no pair through life,
    So equal liv'd as we did;
    Alike we shared perpetual strife,
    Nor knew I rest till she did.

                                * * * * *

                    An Epitaph upon a Scolding Woman.
                             Another version.
                        (From an old Book of Job.)

    We lived one and twenty yeare,
       Like man and wife together;
    I could no longer have her heere,
       She's gone, I know not whither.
    If I could guesse, I doe professe,
       (I speak it not to flatter)
    Of all the women in the worlde,
       I never would come at her.
    Her body is bestowed well,
       A handsome grave doth hide her,
    And sure her soule is not in hell,
       The fiend could ne'er abide her.
    I think she mounted up on hie,
       For in the last great thunder,
    Mee thought I heard her voice on hie,
       Rending the clouds in sunder.

                                * * * * *

    Within this place a vertvous virgin lies,
    Much like those virgins that were counted wise,
    Her lamp of life by Death being now pvt ovt,
    Her lamp of grace doth still shine rovnd abovt,
    And thovgh her body here doth sleep in clay,
    Yet is her sovl still watchfvl for that day,
    When Christ the Bridegroom of her sovl shall come,
    To take her with him to the wedding roome.

                                * * * * *

                              Amy Mitchell,
                              1724 aged 19.

    Here lies a virgin cropt in youth,
    A Xtian both in name and truth,
    Forbear to mourn, she is not dead,
    But gone to marry Christ her head.

                                * * * * *

                    On a Woman who had three Husbands.

    Here lies the body of Mary Sextone,
    Who pleased three men, and never vexed one,
    That she can't say beneath the next stone.

                                * * * * *

                              Marianne S--.

    Conjuge (i?) nunquam satis plorandae
    Inane hoc, tamen ultimum,
    Amoris consecrat testimonium,
    Maritus, heu! superstes.

The above Epitaph, inscribed on a plain marble tablet in a village church
near Bath, is one of the few in which the Latin language has been
employed with the brief and profound pathos of ancient sepulchral

                                * * * * *

    Short was her life,
    Longer will be her rest;
    Christ call'd her home,
    Because he thought it best.

    For she was born to die,
    To lay her body down,
    And young she did fly,
    Into the world unknown.

          5 years & 9 months.

                                * * * * *

    Here lies my wife in earthly mould,
    Who when she lived did naught but scold.
    Peace! wake her not for now she's still,
    She _had_, but now _I_ have my will.

                                * * * * *

Epitaph written by Sarah Dobson, wife of John Dobson, to be put on her
tombstone after her decease:--

    I now have fallen asleep--my troubles gone,
    For while on earth, I had full many a one,
    When I get up again--as Parson says,
    I hope that I shall see some better days.
    If Husband he should make a second suit
    His second wife will find that he's a _brute_.
    He often made my poor sad heart to sigh,
    And often made me weep from _one poor eye_,
    The other he knocked out by a violent blow,
    As all my Kinsfolk and my Neighbours know.
    I hope he will not serve his next rib so,
    But if he should, will put the two together,
    And through them stare while Satan tans his leather.

                                * * * * *

                             On Jemmy Jewell.

    'Tis odd, quite odd, that I should laugh,
    When I'm to write an epitaph.
    Here lies the bones of a rakish _Timmy_
    Who was a _Jewell_ & a _Jemmy_.

    He dealt in diamonds, garnets, rings,
    And twice ten thousand pretty things;
    Now he supplies Old _Nick_ with fuel,
    And there's an end of _Jemmy Jewell_.

                                * * * * *

                      On Thomas Knowles & his Wife.

    Thomas Knolles lies under this stone,
    And his wife Isabell: flesh and bone
    They were together nineteen year,
    And ten children they had in fear.
    His fader & he to this church
    Many good deed they did worch.
    Example by him may ye see,
    That this world is but vanity;
    For whether he be small or great,
    All shall turn to worms' meat;
    This said Thomas was lay'd on beere,
    The eighth day the month Fevree,
    The date of Jesu Christ truly,
    Anno M.C.C.C. five & forty.
    We may not pray; heartily pray he,
    For our souls, Pater Noster and Ave.
    The swarer of our pains lissed to be,
    Grant us thy holy trinity.  Amen.

                                * * * * *

On one stone, exhibiting a copy of that VERY RARE inscription beginning
with "Afflictions sore," the second line affords the following choice
specimen of orthography:--"Physicians are in vain."

    Think nothing strange,
       Chance happens unto all;
    My lot's to-day,
       To-morrow yours may fall.
    Great afflictions I have had,
       Which wore my strength away;
    Then I was willing to submit
       Unto this bed of clay.

                                * * * * *

                       On Burbridge, the Tragedian.

    Exit Burbridge.

                                * * * * *

                          On the late Mr. Suett.

    Here lies to mix with kindred earth,
    A child of wit, of Glee and Mirth;
    Hush'd are those powers which gave delight;
    And made us laugh in reason's spite:
    Thy "gibes and jests shall now no more
    Set all the rabble in a roar."
    Sons of Mirth, and Humour come,
    And drop a tear on Suett's Tomb;
    Nor ye alone, but all who view it,
    Weep and Exclaim, Alas Poor Suett.

                                * * * * *

                      On the Tomb of a Murdered Man.

    O holy Jove! my murderers, may they die
    A death like mine--my buriers live in joy!

                                * * * * *

             On a Magistrate who had formerly been a Barber.

    Here lies Justice;--be this his truest praise:
       He wore the wig which once he made,
    And learnt to shave both ways.

                                * * * * *

                    To the Memory of Nell Batchelour,
                          The Oxford Pye-woman.

       Here into the dust,
       The mouldering crust
    Of Eleanor Batchelour's shoven;
       Well versed in the arts
       Of pyes, custards, and tarts,
    And the lucrative skill of the oven.
       When she'd lived long enough
       She made her last puff--
    A puff by her husband much praised;
       Now here she does lie,
       And makes a dirt-pye,
    In hopes that her crust may be raised.

                                * * * * *

                             On a Volunteer.

    Here lies the gallant Captn King,
       He's finished Life's review;
    No more he'll stand on either wing,
       For now he flies on two.

    He was a gallant Volunteer,
       But now his Rifle's rusty;
    No more at drill will he appear,
       His uniform is dusty.

    No more he'll hear the Bugle's sound
       Till Bugler Angels blow it,
    Nor briskly march along the ground,
       His body lies below it.

    Let's hope when at the great parade
       We all meet in a cluster,
    With many another martial blade
       He'll readily pass muster.

    Seraphic sabre in his fist,
       On heavenly drill reflective,
    May he be placed upon the list,
       Eternally effective.

                                * * * * *

                               On a Sailor.
                         Written by his messmate.

    Here is honest Jack--to the lobsters a prey,
    Who lived like a sailor free hearty and gay,
    His riggings well fitted, his sides close and tight,
    His bread room well furnished, his mainmast upright;
    When Death, like a pirate built solely for plunder,
    Thus hail'd Jack in a voice loud as thunder,
    "Drop your peak my old boy, and your topsails throw back!
    For already too long you've remain'd on that tack."
    Jack heard the dread call, and without more ado,
    His sails flatten'd in and his bark she broach'd to.

                                * * * * *

                             Laconic Epitaph.


                                * * * * *

                               On a Seaman.

    My watch perform'd, lo here at rest I lay,
    Not to turn out till resurrection day.

                                * * * * *

                       Laconic Epitaph on a Sailor.

    I caught a feaver--weather plaguey hot,
    Was boarded by a Leech--and now am gone to pot.

                                * * * * *

                           On an honest Sailor.

    Whether sailor or not, for a moment avast;
    Poor Tom's mizen topsail is laid to the mast;
    He'll never turn out, or more heave the lead;
    He's now all aback, nor will sails shoot ahead;
    He ever was brisk, &, though now gone to wreck,
    When he hears the last whistle he'll jump upon deck.

                                * * * * *

                           Epitaph on a Sailor.

    Tom Taugh lies below, as gallant arous.

                                * * * * *

           On a Man who was killed by a blow from a Sky Rocket.

       Here I lie,
    Killed by a Sky
    Rocket in my eye.

                                * * * * *

      On a Post Boy, who was killed by the overturning of a Chaise.

    Here I lays,
    Killed by a Chaise.

                                * * * * *

    Here lies I no wonder I'se dead,
    For a broad wheeled Waggon went over my head

                                * * * * *

                               On a Miser.

    Here lies one for medicine would not give
       A little gold, and so his life he lost;
    I fancy now he'd wish to live again,
       Could he but know how much his funeral cost.

                                * * * * *

                               On a Miser.

    Iron was his chest,
       Iron was his door,
    His hand was iron,
       And his heart was more.

                                * * * * *

                               On a Miser.

    Here lies old father GRIPE, who never cried "_Jam satis_;"
    'Twould wake him did he know, you read his tombstone gratis.

                                * * * * *

                        On an Old Covetous Usurer.

    You'd have me say, here lies T. U.
       But I do not believe it;
    For after Death there's something due,
       And he's gone to receive it.

                                * * * * *

                              On an Usurer.

    Here lies ten in the hundred
       In the ground fast ram'd,
    'Tis an hundred to ten,
       But his soul is damned.

                                * * * * *

    Epitaph on the grave of a Smuggler killed in a fight with Revenue

    Here I lies
    Killed by the XII.

                                * * * * *

                               On a Miser.

    Here lies one who lived unloved, and died unlamented; who denied
    plenty to himself, and assistance to his friends, and relief to the
    poor; who starved his family, oppressed his neighbours, and plagued
    himself to gain what he could not enjoy; at last Death, more merciful
    to him than he was to himself, released him from care, and his family
    from want; and here he lies with the grovelling worm, and with the
    dirt he loved, in fear of a resurrection, lest his heirs should have
    spent the money he left behind, having laid up no treasure where moth
    and rust do not corrupt, nor thieves break through and steal.

                                * * * * *

                       On John D'Amory, the Usurer.

    Beneath this verdant hillock lies
    Demar the wealthy and wise.
    His Heirs, that he might safely rest,
    Have put his carcase in a Chest.
    The very Chest, in which, they say
    His other Self, his Money, lay.
    And if his Heirs continue kind
    To that dear Self he left behind,
    I dare believe that Four in Five
    Will think his better self alive.

                                * * * * *

                             On William Clay.

    A long affliction did my life attend,
    But time with patience brought it to an end,
    And now my body rests with Mother clay,
    Until the joyful resurrection day.

                                * * * * *

                           Written on Montmaur,
          A man of excellent memory, but deficient in judgment.

    In this black surtout reposes sweetly, Montmaur of
    happy memory, _awaiting his judgement_.

                                * * * * *

                              On an Invalid.
                           Written by Himself.

    Here lies a head that often ached;
    Here lie two hands that always shak'd;
    Here lies a brain of odd conceit;
    Here lies a heart that often beat;
    Here lie two eyes that dimly wept,
    And in the night but seldom slept;
    Here lies a tongue that whining talk'd;--
    Here lie two feet that feebly walked;
    Here lie the midriff and the breast,
    With loads of indigestion prest;
    Here lives the liver full of bile,
    That ne'er secreted proper chyle;
    Here lie the bowels, human tripes,
    Tortured with wind and twisting gripes;
    Here lies the livid dab, the spleen,
    The source of life's sad tragic scene,
    That left side weight that clogs the blood,
    And stagnates Nature's circling flood;
    Here lies the back, oft racked with pains,
    Corroding kidneys, loins, and reins;
    Here lies the skin by scurvy fed,
    With pimples and irruptions red;
    Here lies the man from top to toe,
    That fabric fram'd for pain and woe.

                                * * * * *

                          On Sir John Vanbrugh.

    Lie heavy on him, earth! for he
    Laid many heavy loads on thee.

                                * * * * *

The following Epitaph was written by Shakespeare on Mr. Combe, an old
gentleman noted for his wealth and usury:--

    "_Ten in the hundred_ lies here ingraved:
    'Tis a hundred to ten his soul is not saved:
    If any man ask, Who lies in this tomb?

                                * * * * *

                              On Dr. Fuller.

    Here lies _Fuller's_ earth.

                                * * * * *

                             On a Card-maker.

    His card is cut; long days he shuffled through
    The game of Life; he dealt as others do.
    Though he by honours tells not its amount,
    When the last trump is played his tricks will count.

                                * * * * *

                          On a Man and his Wife.

    Stay, bachelor, if you have wit,
    A wonder to behold:
    Husband and wife, in one dark pit,
    Lie still and never scold.

    Tread softly tho' for fear she wakes;--
    Hark, she begins already:
    You've hurt my head;--my shoulder akes;
    These sots can ne'er move steady.

    Ah friend, with happy freedom blest!
    See how my hopes miscarry'd:
    Not death can give me rest,
    Unless you die unmarry'd.

                                * * * * *

    Here lie the remains of Thomas Woodhen,
    The most amiable of Husbands, and the most excellent of men.

    "_N.B._--The name is Woodcock, but it would'nt come in rhyme!"

                                * * * * *

                             On Marshal Sare.

N.B.--The figures are to be pronounced in French as un, deux, trois, etc.

Ses vertus le feront admire de chac                           1
Il avait des Rivaux, mais il triompha                         2
Les Batailles qu'il gagna sont au nombre de                   3
Pour Louis son grand coeur se serait mis en                   4
En amour, c'etait peu pour lui d'aller a                      5
Nous l'aurions s'il n'eut fait que le berger Tir'             6
Pour avoir trop souvent passe douze "Hie-ja"                  7
Il a cesse de vivre en Decembre                               8
Strasbourg contient son corps dans un Tombeau tout            9
Pour tant de "Te Deum" pas un "De profun"                    10
      He died at the age of                                  55

_a_.  Tircis, the name of a celebrated Arcadian shepherd.

_b_.  A great personage of the day remarked that it was a pity after the
Marshal had by his victories been the cause of so many "Te Deums," that
it would not be allowed (the Marshal dying in the Lutheran faith) to
chant one "de profundis," over his remains.

                                * * * * *

                             On Thomas Jones.

    Here for the nonce,
    Came _Thomas Jones_,
    In St. Giles's Church to lye;
    Non Welch before,
    None Welchman more,
    Till Show Clerk dy.

    He tole his bell,
    He ring his knell.
    He dyed well,
    He's sav'd from hell,
    And so farewell,

                                                                Tom Jones.

                                * * * * *

On Dr. Walker, who wrote a book called "Particles:"--

    Here lie Walker's Particles.

                                * * * * *

                         The tomb of Keats the Poet.

                             This grave contains
                               that was mortal
                                     of a
                             young English Poet,
                              on his death bed,
                        in the bitterness of his heart
                    at the malicious power of his enemies,
                                desired these
                    words to be engraved on his tombstone:
                                "Here lies one
                        whose name was writ in water."
                              February 24, 1821.

                                * * * * *

                               On Mr. Quin.

    Says Epicure Quin, Should the devil in hell,
    In fishing for men take delight,
    His hook bait with ven'son, I love it so well,
    Indeed I am sure I should bite.

                                * * * * *

    Here lies Sir John Plumpudding of the Grange,
    Who hanged himself one morning for a change.

                                * * * * *

On John Bell.

    I Jocky Bell o' Braikenbrow, lyes under this stane,
    Five of my awn sons laid it on my wame;
    I liv'd aw my dayes, but sturt or strife,
    Was man o' my meat, and master o' my wife.
    If you done better in your time, than I did in mine,
    Take this stane aff my wame, and lay it on o' thine.

                                * * * * *

                         On Mr. Havard, Comedian.

    "An honest man's the noblest work of God."

    Havard from sorrow rest beneath this stone;
    An honest man--beloved as soon as known;
    However defective in the mimic art,
    In real life he justly played his part!
    The noblest character he acted well,
    And heaven applauded when the curtain fell.

                                * * * * *

                      On Robin Masters, Undertaker.

    Here lieth Robin Masters--Faith 'twas hard
       To take away our honest Robin's breath;
    Yet surely Robin was full well prepared,
       Robin was always looking out for death.

                                * * * * *

                            On an Undertaker.

    Subdued by death, here death's great herald lies,
    And adds a trophy to his victories;
    Yet sure he was prepared, who, while he'd breath,
    Made it his business to look for death.

                                * * * * *

                               On a Cobler.

    Death at a cobler's door oft made a stand,
    And always found him on the mending hand;
    At last came Death, in very dirty weather,
    And ripp'd the sole from off the upper leather.
    Death put a trick upon him, and what was't?
    The cobler called for's awl, Death brought his last.

                                * * * * *

                              On a Dustman.

    Beneath yon humble clod, at rest
    Lies Andrew, who, if not the best,
       Was not the very worst man;
    A little rakish, apt to roam;
    But not so now, he's quite at home,
       For Andrew was a _Dustman_.

                                * * * * *

    Here lies the body of John Cole,
    His master loved him like his soul;
    He could rake hay--none could rake faster,
    Except that raking dog, his master.

                                * * * * *

                        Mr. Langford, Auctioneer.

    So, so, Master Langford, the hammer of Death
    Hath knock'd out your brains, and deprived you of breath;
    'Tis but tit for tat, he who puts up the town,
    By Devil or Death must at last be knock'd down.

                                * * * * *

                          On a man named Stone.

    Jerusalem's curse was not fulfilled in me,
    For here a stone upon a Stone you see.

                                * * * * *

                              On Thomas Day.

    Here lies Thomas Day,
    Lately removed from over the way.

                                * * * * *

                            Epitaph by Burns.
                  (On a man choked by a piece of bread!)

    Here I lie, killed by a crumb,
    That wouldn't go down, nor wouldn't up come.

                                * * * * *

                          On John Treffry, Esq.

    Here in this Chancel do I lye,
    Known by the name of John Treffry.
    Being born & made for to die;
    So must thou, friend, as well as I.
    Therefore good works be sure to try,
    But chiefly love & Charity;
    And still on them with faith rely,
    To be happy eternally.

This was put up during his life, who was a whimsical man.  He had his
grave dug, & lay down and swore in it, to show the sexton a novelty,
_i.e._, a man swearing in his grave.

                                * * * * *

                               On -- Hatt.

    By Death's impartial scythe was mown
    Poor Hatt--he lies beneath this stone;
    On him misfortune oft did frown,
    Yet Hatt ne'er wanted for a crown;
    When many years of constant wear
    Had made his beaver somewhat bare,
    Death saw, and pitying his mishap,
    Has given him here a good long nap.

                                * * * * *

    Here I, Thomas Wharton, do lie,
       With Lucifer under my head,
    And Nelly my wife hard bye,
       And Nancy as cold as lead.

    O, how can I speak without dread
       Who could my sad fortune abide?
    With one devil under my head,
       And another laid close on each side.

                                * * * * *

                    On William Jones, a Bone Collector

    Here lie the bones of William Jones,
    Who when alive collected bones,
    But Death, that grisly bony spectre,
    That most amazing bone collector,
    Has boned poor Jones so snug and tidy,
    That here he lies in bona fide.

                                * * * * *

                    The late Rev. John Sampson, of Kendal.

    In memoriam viri doctissimi et clerici, Joannis Sampson,
       olim hujusce sacelli ministri, itemque ludi literarii apud
       Congalum triginta septem fere annos magistri seduli;
       hoc marmor ponendum quidam discipulus praeceptorem
       merens curavit.
    Ob: An: aetatis suae LXXVII; A.D. MDCCCXLIII.
    Foris juxta januam e dextra introeunti sepultum est
    Problemata plurima geometrica proposuit ac solvit; ad
       haec accedunt versus haud pauci, latine et manu sua
       scripti; quorum exemplum infra insculptum est; adeo
       ut Christiano tum mentem, tum viri fidem cognoscere

                               "[Greek text]."

       "Quandocunque sophos clarus sua dogmata profert,
         "Nil valet [Greek text], ni documenta daret;"
       "At mihi cum Christus loquitur, verum, via, vita,
         "Tum vero fateor sufficit [Greek text]."

                                * * * * *

Epitaph on the Mareschal Comte de Ranzan, a Swede, who accompanied
Oxenstiern to Paris, and was taken into the French service by Louis XIII.
He died of hydrophobia in 1650.  He had been in innumerable battles, had
lost an eye and two limbs, and his body was found to be entirely covered
with scars.

    Stop, passenger! this stone below
    Lies half the body of Ranzan:
    The other moiety's scattered far
    And wide o'er many a field of war;
    For to no land the hero came,
    On which he shed not blood and fame.
    Mangled or maim'd each meaner part,
    One thing remain'd entire--his heart.

                                * * * * *

                        At Arlington, near Paris.

                Here lie
    Two grandmothers, with their two granddaughters
    Two husbands with their two wives,
    Two fathers with their two daughters,
    Two mothers with their two sons,
    Two maidens with their two mothers,
    Two sisters with their two brothers.
    Yet but six corps in all lie buried here,
    All born legitimate, & from incest clear.

The above may be thus explained:--

Two widows, that were sisters-in-law, had each a son, who married each
other's mother, and by them had each a daughter.  Suppose one widow's
name Mary, and her son's name John, and the other widow's name Sarah, and
her son's James; this answers the fourth line.  Then suppose John married
Sarah, and had a daughter by her, and James married Mary, and had a
daughter also, these marriages answer the first, second, third, fifth,
and sixth lines of the epitaph.

                                * * * * *

    Sudden and unexpected was the end
    Of our esteemed and beloved friend.
    He gave to all his friends a sudden shock
    By one day falling into Sunderland Dock.

                                * * * * *

                              At Sakiwedel.

    Traveller, hurry not, as if you were going _post_-haste; in the most
    rapid journey you must stop at the _post_ house.  Here repose the
    bones of MATTHIAS SCHULZEN, the most humble and most faithful
    _Postmaster_, for upwards of Twenty-five years, of His Majesty,
    Frederick, King of Prussia.  He arrived 1655; and afterwards
    travelled with distinction in life's pilgrimage, by walking courses
    in the Schools and Universities.  He carefully performed his duties
    as a Christian, and when the _post_ of misfortune came, he behaved
    according to the _letter_ of divine consolation.  His body, however,
    ultimately being enfeebled, he was prepared to attend the signal
    given by the _post_ of death; when his soul set off on her pleasing
    journey for Paradise, the 2nd of June, 1711; and his body afterwards
    was committed to this silent tomb.  Reader, in thy pilgrimage through
    life, be mindful of the prophetic _post_ of Death!

                                * * * * *

    Dear Husband, now my life is past,
    And I am stuck in Earth so fast,
    I pray no sorrow for me take,
    But love my Children, for my sake;--

                                * * * * *


    "O   Mors   Cur   Deus   Negat   Vitam
    be   te    bis    nos    bis    nam."


    O! Superbe! Mors Super--te!
    Cur Superbis?
    Deus Supernos! negat Superbis
    Vitam Supernam.

                                * * * * *

On the Duke of Burgundy's tomb in St. George's Church, near Conde:--

    "Carolus hoc busto Burgundae gloria gentis,
    Conditur, Europae qui fuit ante timor."

                                * * * * *

Near the left wall in the Protestant-ground at Rome is a monument to Lord
Barrington, and a tombstone to the infant child of Mr. William Lambton:--

    Go thou, white in thy soul, and fill a throne
    Of innocence and purity in heaven!

                                * * * * *

                           Silo Princeps Fecit.

T   I   C   E   F   S   P   E   C   N   C   E   P   S   F   E   C   I   T
I   C   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   S   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

At the entrance of the Church of St. Salvador in the city of Oviedo, in
Spain, is a most remarkable tomb, erected by a prince named Silo, with
this very curious Latin inscription which may be read 270 ways by
beginning with the capital letter S in the centre.

                                * * * * *

On a tombstone in the churchyard at Hochheim, a village where one of the
best species of Rhenish is produced, and from the name of which our
generic Hock is derived:--

    This grave holds Caspar Schink, who came to dine,
    And taste the noblest vintage of the Rhine;
    Three nights he sat, and thirty bottles drank,
    Then lifeless by the board of Bacchus sank.
    One only comfort have we in the case,--
    The trump will raise him in the proper place.

                                * * * * *

    Here lies Peg, that drunken sot,
    Who dearly loved her jug and pot;
    There she lies, as sure as can be,
    She killed herself by drinking brandy.

                                * * * * *


                              AT. HT, Hi S: ST--
                              Oneli: E: Skat. .
                            He, Ri, N. eg. Rayc--
                                   . F . R.
                           O! mab. V, Syli, Fetol--
                                 IF . . Ele:
                                Ayb...  Year.
                                   .  Than.
                                   : Hego.
                                   . Fand.
                               No, WS. He: stur
                                 N'D to Ear,
                                 TH, h, Ersel
                               Fy! EWE: EP....
                              In: G. F. R: IE: N
                                   D. S. L.
                                  Et, mea D
                                     V: I
                              Sea: ...... Batey.
                                O! V: rg.....
                                RiE .... Fan.
                                   . D. D.
                                RYY. O! V.R.E
                               Yes.  F.O.R W: H
                                    . ATa.
                            Vai ....  LS. a. flo.
                              O! do. F. Tea. R.
                               SW: Hok: No: WS:
                                Buti. nar. U.
                             No! Fy: Ear, SI: N.
                                  SO: Metal:
                                  L. Pit. c.
                             HERO: . . r. Bro, a:
                                    D. P.
                                   ANS, Hei
                                    N. H.
                                Ers. Hop. ma:
                                    Y. B.
                              Ea: Gai .... N. .

                                * * * * *

The following was written by Capt. Morris on Edward Heardson, thirty
years Cook to the Beef Steak Society.

    His last _steak_ done; his fire rak'd out and dead,
    _Dished_ for the worms himself, lies _honest Ned_:
    _We_, then, whose breasts bore all his _fleshly toils_,
    Took all his _bastings_, and shared all his _broils_;
    Now, in our turn, a _mouthful carve_ and _trim_,
    And _dress_ at Phoebus' _fire_, one _scrap_ for him:--
    His heart which well might grace the noblest grave,
    Was grateful, patient, modest, just, and brave;
    And ne'er did earth's wide maw _a morsel_ gain
    Of _kindlier juices_ or more tender _grain_;
    His tongue, where duteous friendship humbly dwelt,
    Charmed all who heard the faithful zeal he felt;
    Still to whatever end his _chops_ he mov'd,
    'Twas all _well seasoned_, _relished_, and approv'd:
    This room his heaven!--When threatening Fate drew nigh
    The closing shade that dimm'd his ling'ring eye,
    His last fond hopes, betray'd by many a tear,
    Were--That his life's last _spark_ might glimmer here;
    And the last words that choak'd his parting sigh--
    "Oh! at your feet, dear masters, let me die!"

                                * * * * *

                                Ann Short.

    Ann _Short_, O Lord, of praising thee,
       Nothing I can do is right;
    Needy and naked, poor I be,
       _Short_, Lord, I am of sight:
    How _short_ I am of love and grace!
       Of everything I'm _short_,
    Renew me, then I'll follow peace
       Through good and bad report.

                                * * * * *

    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,
    Tho' he gave our old organist many a blast.
    No puffer was he,
    Tho' a capital blower;
    He could fill double G,
    And now lies a note lower.

                                * * * * *

In the Cathedral of Sienna, celebrated for its floor inlaid with the
History of the New Testament, is the following singular Epitaph, probably
placed there as a _memento to Italian Toby Philpots_:--

    "Wine gives life; it was death to me, I could not behold the dawn of
    morning in a sober state.  Even my bones are now thirsty.  Stranger,
    sprinkle my grave with wine; empty the flaggons and come.  Farewell

                                * * * * *

                 Over a grave in Prince Edward's Island.

    Here lies the body of poor Charles Lamb,
    Killed by a tree that fell slap bang.

                                * * * * *

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

                                * * * * *

    Here lies John Bunn,
    Who was killed by a gun;
    His name wasn't Bun, his real name was Wood,
    But Wood wouldn't rhyme with gun, so I thought Bun should.

                                * * * * *

                                 In Memory of
                              THE STATE LOTTERY,
                           the last of a long line
                      whose origin in England commenced
                              in the year 1569,
                 which, after a series of tedious complaints,
                                    on the
                          18th day of October, 1826.
                   During a period of 257 years, the family
                   flourished under the powerful protection
                                    of the
                             British Parliament;
                    the minister of the day continuing to
                        give them his support for the
                         improvement of the revenue.
                  As they increased, it was found that their
                      continuance corrupted the morals,
                           and encouraged a spirit
                    of speculation and gambling among the
                         lower classes of the people;
                   thousands of whom fell victims to their
                    insinuating and tempting allurements.
                        Many philanthropic individuals
                                in the Senate
                   at various times for a series of years,
                     pointed out their baneful influence
                               without effect,
                           His Majesty's Ministers
                    still affording them their countenance
                               and protection.
                            The British Parliament
                      being at length convinced of their
                            mischievous tendency,
                           HIS MAJESTY GEORGE IV.,
                            on the 9th July, 1823,
                     pronounced sentence of condemnation
                              on the whole race;
                       from which time they were almost
                       NEGLECTED BY THE BRITISH PUBLIC.
                     Very great efforts were made by the
                    Partisans and friends of the family to
                   the public feeling in favour of the last
                            of the race, in vain:
                      it continued to linger out the few
                  moments of its existence without attention
                     or sympathy, and finally terminated
                        its career, unregretted by any
                                virtuous mind.

                                * * * * *

    '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 a Grocer.

    Garret some call'd him,
       but that was too hye;
    His name is Garrard
       who now here doth lie;
    Weepe not for him,
       since he is gone before
    To heaven, where Grocers
       there are many more.


Conteúdo completo disponível em:


Billboard Hot 100 - Letras de Músicas | Song Lyrics - Songtext - Testo Canzone - Paroles Musique - 歌曲歌词 - 歌詞 - كلمات الاغنية - песни Текст

Educação Infantil - Vídeos, Jogos e Atividades Educativas para crianças de 4 à 11 anos

Língua Portuguesa e Atualidades

Arte e Estética

Santa Catarina - Conheça seu Estado

São Paulo - Conheça seu Estado

Paraná - Conheça seu Estado

Mato Grosso do Sul - Conheça seu Estado

Salmos - Capítulo 29 - Bíblia Online

Pai nosso, que estás nos céus! Santificado seja o teu nome

O Diário de Anne Frank

Macunaíma - Mário de Andrade

Dom Casmurro - Machado de Assis

Quincas Borba - Machado de Assis

Memórias Póstumas de Brás Cubas - Machado de Assis

O Triste Fim de Policarpo Quaresma - Lima Barreto

Mein Kampf - Adolf Hitler

Cinco Minutos - José de Alencar

Egito Antigo - História em 1 Minuto

TOP 10: Poesia - Poemas em Português, Espanhol, francês e inglês

Contemplações - Cordélia Sylvia

Morte de Raquel - Madalena da Glória

Sóror Maria do Céu - Sobre as palavras do padre Vieira

Prece - Natalina Cordeiro

A Raposa e as Uvas - Manuel Maria Barbosa du Bocage

Luís Vaz de Camões - Apolo e as Nove Musas Descantando

Se tu viesses ver-me - Florbela Espanca

Que falta nesta cidade - Gregório de Matos

Flor da Mocidade - Machado de Assis

Velhas Árvores - Olavo Bilac

Uma lembrança - Emília Freitas

Lembrança de Morrer - Alvarez de Azevedo

Los Naranjos

Lorsque l'enfant paraît - Victor Hugo

A uma Ausência - Soror Violante do Céu

The Road Not Taken

Quem Ve, Senhora, Claro e Manifesto

Cristo de Bronze - Broquéis - João da Cruz e Sousa

Adeus, meu canto - Os Escravos - Castro Alves

Soneto - Augusto dos Anjos - Eu e Outras Poesia

TOP 30: PDF para Download - Domínio Público

Livros em PDF para Download

O Estrangeiro - Albert Camus

A Mortalha de Alzira - Aluísio Azevedo

O Diário de Anne Frank - Edição Definitiva - Anne Frank

Mein Kampf - Adolf Hitler - Download PDF Livro Online

Juca-Pirama - Antônio Gonçalves Dias

Oeuvres - Arthur Rimbaud

A Ama-Seca - Artur Azevedo

Eu e Outras Poesias - Augusto dos Anjos

Amor De Perdição - Camilo Castelo Branco

A cachoeira de Paulo Afonso - Castro Alves

As Flores do Mal - Charles Baudelaire

David Copperfield - Charles Dickens

Faróis - Cruz e Sousa

Hell or The Inferno from The divine comedy - Dante Alighieri

A Ilustre Casa de Ramires - Eça de Queiros - PDF

Contos Extraordinários - Edgar Allan Poe

Canudos e outros temas - Euclides da Cunha - PDF


Medeia - Eurípides

Aforismos e Afins - Fernando Pessoa - Livros em PDF para Download

Fiódor Mikhailovitch Dostoiévsk - Fedor Dostoievski - Livros em PDF para Download

O Idiota - Fiódor Mikhailovitch Dostoiévsk - Fedor Dostoievski

Francis Scott Fitzgerald

O Estranho Caso de Benjamin Button - Francis Scott Fitzgerald

Franz Kafka - PDF

O Castelo - Franz Kafka - PDF

Gustave Flaubert em português - Livros em PDF para Download

Um Coração Simples - Gustave Flaubert - PDF

Herman Melville - PDF

Moby Dick - Herman Melville

Hesíodo - Hesiod

The Poems and Fragments - Hesiod

Odisséia - Homero - Download

Retrato do Artista Quando Jovem - James Joyce - Download

Emma - Jane Austen - Download PDF Livro Online

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Os Anos de Aprendizado de Wilhelm Meister - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Jonathan Swift

Viagens de Gulliver - Jonathan Swift

A Pata da Gazela - José de Alencar

Joseph Conrad

O Coração das Trevas - Joseph Conrad

A mulher de Anacleto - Lima Barreto - Livros em PDF para Download

Anna Karenina - Leon Tolstói - Download

Machado de Assis

O Alienista

Esaú e Jacó

Dom Casmurro

Memórias Póstumas de Brás Cubas

Quincas Borba

A Cartomante - Machado de Assis - PDF Download Livro Online

Michel de Montaigne - PDF Download Livro Online

Les Essais - Michel de Montaigne - PDF

Marcel Proust - Download PDF Livro Online

À Sombra das Raparigas em Flor – Em Busca do Tempo Perdido – Vol.2 - Marcel Proust

Amar verbo intransitivo - Mário de Andrade - PDF Download Livro Online

Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra - Download PDF Livro Online

Don Quixote. Vol. 2 - Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra

Alma inquieta - Olavo Bilac - PDF Download Livro Online

Públio Ovídio Naso

Metamorfoses - Públio Ovídio Naso

As jóias da Coroa - Raul Pompeia - PDF Download Livro Online


Édipo Rei - Sófocles

Thomas Mann

Doutor Fausto - Thomas Mann

T. S. Eliot - Thomas Stearns Eliot

A Terra Desolada - T. S. Eliot - Thomas Stearns Eliot

Marília De Dirceu - Tomás Antônio Gonzaga - PDF Download Livro Online

O Corcunda de Notre-Dame - Victor Hugo - PDF Download Livro Online

Virgilio - PDF

Eneida - Virgilio

Noite e Dia - Virginia Woolf - PDF

William Shakespeare

A Megera Domada - William-Shakespeare - Livros em PDF para Download

William Faulkner

O Som e a Fúria - William Faulkner

Bíblia Sagrada - João Ferreira de Almeida - Bíblia

Bíblia Sagrada - Católica

O Vermelho e o Negro - Stendhal - Henri-Marie Beyle

O Homem Sem Qualidades - Robert Musil

TOP 30: Billboard - Letras de Músicas - Song Lyrics - Songtext

Closer - The Chainsmokers ft. Halsey

Chill Bill - Rob $tone ft. J. Davi$ & Spooks

How I'll Always Be - Tim McGraw

My Shit - A Boogie Wit da Hoodie

80s Mercedes - Maren Morris

Alone - Marshmello

Bad Things - Machine Gun Kelly x Camila Cabello

Dirty Laundry - Carrie Underwood

Blow Your Mind (Mwah) - Dua Lipa

Today - Brad Paisley

Ain't My Fault - Zara Larsson

Million Reasons - Lady Gaga

PPAP (Pen-Pineapple-Apple-Pen) - Piko-Taro

All Time Low - Jon Bellion

24K Magic - Bruno Mars

GooFresh Eyes - Andy Grammer - Song Lyrics

Wanna Be That Song - Brett Eldredge - Song Lyrics

Mercy - Shawn Mendes - Letras de Música

Juju On That Beat (TZ Anthem) - Zay Hilfigerrr & Zayion McCall - Letras de Música

Wishing - DJ Drama feat Chris Brown, Skeme & Lyquin - Letras de Música

Too Much Sauce - DJ ESCO feat Future & Lil Uzi Vert - Letras de Música

All We Know - The Chainsmokers feat Phoebe Ryan - Letras de Música

False Alarm - The Weeknd - Letras de Música

Rock On - Tucker Beathard - Letras de Música

Say It - Flume feat Tove Lo - Letras de Música

This Town - Niall Horan - Letras de Música

Scars To Your Beautiful - Alessia Cara - Song Lyrics

I Met A Girl - William Michael Morgan - Song Lyrics

Perfect Illusion - Lady Gaga - Song Lyrics

Forever Country - Artists Of Then, Now & Forever - Song Lyrics

Starboy - The Weeknd feat Daft Punk - Song Lyrics

Side To Side - Ariana Grande feat Nicki Minaj - Song Lyrics

TOP 60: Conheça seu Estado - História e Geografia


Outros recursos hídricos de Santa Catarina

Preservação histórica e cultural

A preservação histórica e cultural de Santa Catarina

A formação da cultura de Santa Catarina

As atividades econômicas no estado de Santa Catarina

A divisão estadual após a independência do Brasil

A divisão estadual após a Proclamação da República

Mesorregião Metropolitana de São Paulo

Litoral Sul Paulista (Mesorregião)

Vale Paraíba Paulista (Mesorregião)

Mesorregiões de Assis, Itapetininga e Macrometropolitana Paulista

Marília (Mesorregião)

Oeste Paranaense (Mesorregião)

Centro-oriental (Mesorregião)

Centro-ocidental (Mesorregião)

Norte Pioneiro (Mesorregião)

Norte Central (Mesorregião)

Noroeste paranaense (Mesorregião)

O município e sua administração (MS)

Mato Grosso do Sul – representação e localização

A organização do espaço geográfico brasileiro

O espaço geográfico e sua organização

Prédio mais alto do mundo

Poesia: Continuando...

... e mais Poesia!

Seu Lunga em Mossoró

A poesia em progresso

NO DIA DE ANO BOM - Ressurreição - Machado de Assis

A arte e as novas tendências

A arte na Mídia

A arte como registro histórico

A escultura, depois de Alexander Calder

Tempo - Jogos para Crianças - Atividades Educativas Ensino Fundamental

Pinóquio - Jogos para Crianças - Atividades Educativas Ensino Fundamental

Briga - Jogos para Crianças - Atividades Educativas Ensino Fundamental

Animal de Circo - Jogos para Crianças - Atividades Educativas Ensino Fundamental

Peruca - Jogos para Crianças - Atividades Educativas Ensino Fundamental

Pintor - Jogos para Crianças - Atividades Educativas Ensino Fundamental

Pipoca - Jogos para Crianças - Atividades Educativas Ensino Fundamental

Água - Jogos para Crianças - Atividades Educativas Ensino Fundamental

Horas - Jogos para Crianças - Atividades Educativas Ensino Fundamental

Doação - Jogos para Crianças - Atividades Educativas Ensino Fundamental

Atividades Educativas Ensino Fundamental - Aprendendo sobre o Dinheiro

Curso de Inglês em 2 Horas - Nível Básico

Curso de Espanhol em 2 Horas Nível Básico

Revisão de Inglês em 2 Horas Básico e Intermediário

Progress 4GL - Progress ADE

- SAP ERP Basic Concepts

Lima Barreto - Quase ela deu o sim, mas...

Esaú e Jacó - Machado de Assis

Diva - José de Alencar

A Dívida - Artur de Azevedo

Luís Soares - Contos Fluminenses e Histórias da Meia-Noite - 01 - Machado de Assis

Singularidades de uma rapariga loura, parte 2 - Contos de Eça de Queirós

Um Club da Má Língua - Fiódor Dostoiévski

Casa Velha - Machado de Assis

Amor de Perdição - Camilo Castelo Branco

À Margem da História - Euclides da Cunha

A Tempestade; Morte de Iracema; O Pampa - Eugênio Werneck - Antologia Brasileira

Os Sertões - Euclides da Cunha

O Alienista - Machado de Assis

O Triste Fim de Policarpo Quaresma - Lima Barreto

A Mão e a Luva - Machado de Assis

O Ateneu - Raul Pompeia

Contos para Velhos - Olavo Bilac

Cinco Minutos - José de Alencar

Demóstenes - Oração da Coroa - Parte 3

Contos Lima Barreto

Gênesis - Bíblia

Hamlet - William Shakespeare

Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen

Romeo and Juliet - William Shakespeare

TOP 50: BLOG by Sanderlei Silveira

Biomas brasileiros - Santa Catarina - Conheça seu Estado (História e Geografia)

Idade das Religiões - História em 1 Minuto

As festas populares no estado de São Paulo - SP

O tropeirismo no estado do Paraná - PR

Pantanal – Patrimônio Natural da Humanidade - MS

Prédios mais altos do Mundo e do Brasil (Atualizado até 10/2016)

Os símbolos do estado do Rio de Janeiro - RJ

Poesia - Sanderlei Silveira

Canção do exílio - Gonçalves Dias

How Do I Love Thee? - Sonnet 43 - Elizabeth Barrett Browning

The Road Not Taken - Robert Frost - Poetry in English

24K Magic - Bruno Mars - Letra Música

POVO E RAÇA - Mein Kampf (Minha luta) - Adolf Hitler

Macunaíma - Mário de Andrade

Tendências de mercado - Economia em 1 Minuto

O navio negreiro - Os Escravos - Castro Alves

Antífona - Broquéis - João da Cruz e Sousa

Euclides da Cunha - Os Sertões (Áudio Livro)

A aia - Contos de Eça de Queirós

Diva - José de Alencar - Audiobook

Amor é fogo que arde sem se ver - Sonetos - Poemas de Amor - Luís Vaz de Camões

Versos íntimos - Augusto dos Anjos - Eu e Outras Poesias

Curso de Espanhol Online - Grátis e Completo

Curso de Inglês Online - Grátis e Completo

O Diário de Anne Frank

Casa Velha – Machado de Assis - Livros em PDF para Download (Domínio Público)

Introduction to Design Thinking with SAP - SAP - Course Free Online

Totvs - Datasul - Treinamento Online (Gratuito)

Mitología Griega - Historia en 1 Minuto

Religion - Ancient History - History in 1 Minute

Salmos 22 - Bíblia Online

Olavo Bilac - Contos para Velhos - Áudio Livro

A Doença do Fabrício - Contos - Artur de Azevedo

Contos - Lima Barreto - Áudio Livro - Audiobook

Jane Austen - Pride and Prejudice - AudioBook

Material de apoio para Pais e Professores - Educação Infantil - Nível 1 (crianças entre 4 a 6 anos)

Sala de Aula - Educação Infantil - Nível 2 (crianças entre 5 a 7 anos)

Brincadeira - Educação Infantil - Nível 3 (crianças entre 6 a 8 anos)

Idioma Português - Educação Infantil - Nível 4 (crianças entre 7 a 9 anos)

Rio São Francisco - Educação Infantil - Nível 5 (crianças entre 8 a 10 anos)

Livros - Educação Infantil - Nível 6 (crianças entre 9 a 11 anos)

MISS DOLLAR - Machado de Assis

Quincas Borba - Machado de Assis

Crisálidas - Poesia - Machado de Assis


O ALIENISTA - Papéis Avulsos


Tu, só tu, puro amor - Teatro - Machado de Assis

Cartas Fluminenses - Crônica - Machado de Assis

Helena - Machado de Assis

JOGO PERIGOSO - Memórias Póstumas de Brás Cubas - Machado de Assis

MELHOR DE DESCER QUE DE SUBIR - Esaú e Jacó - Machado de Assis

Nenhum comentário:

Postar um comentário