[ 410 ] [APRIL, 



RECOLLECTIONS, FROM THK PORTFOLIO OF A LOVER OF 

 LITERATURE. 



CHURCHILL the poet's epitaph, by Wilkes, is a model for succinct 

 expression. 'Its vigour shames many of the sesquipedalia affairs which 

 spread the wisdom of fools and the virtue of knaves over so many square 

 yards of marble : 



CAROLO CHURCHILL 

 Amico jucundo 



Poetse acri 

 Civi optime de patria merito 



Johannes Wilkes 



The spirit of an inscription, whether for the living or the dead, should 

 be simplicity. The following is too long, yet it is beautiful : 



EPITAPH ON AN INFANT, WHOSE SUPPOSED PARENTS WERE VAGRANTS. 



When no one gave the cordial draught, 



No healing art was found, 

 My God the sovereign balsam brought, 



And Death relieved the wound. 



What though no mourning kindred stand 



Around the solemn bier, 

 No parents wring the trembling hand, 



Or drop the tender tear, 



No velvet pall, no work of art, 



My infant limbs inclose, 

 No friends the winding-sheet impart, 



To deck my last repose, 



Yet hear, ye. great ones ! hear ye this ! 



Be wise, ye guilty proud ! 

 A spotless life my coffin is, 



And innocence my shroud. 



My name unknown, obscure my birth, 



No funeral rights are given ; 

 But though denied man's house on earth, 



I tread- God's courts in heaven. 



The celebrated Pulteney (Earl of Bath) was not known as a poet ; 

 yet, even in the tumults of public life, he had not altogether forgotten 

 the original tastes which, perhaps, for his happiness, he might have 

 more wisely pursued, than the distracting, and finally the disappointing, 

 career of ambition. His epitaph on the stone that covered the grave 

 where his father, mother, and brother were laid, is a striking evidence 

 that the man was fit for something better than the leader of an intem- 

 perate faction : 



Ye sacred spirits ! while your friends, distressed, 

 Weep o'er your ashes, and lament the blessed, 

 Oh! let the pensive muse inscribe that stone, 

 And with the general sorrows mix her own 

 The pensive muse ! who, from this mournful hour, 

 Shall raise her voice, and wake the string no more.. 1 

 Of love, of duty, this last pledge receive 

 'Tis all a brother, all a son, can give. 



