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 Cæsar at Bennington, Herts:—
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.”
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.
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.