Page 77 - Graveyard

G r av e y ar d H u m o r | 75

No conquests she, but o’er herself, desired,
No arts essay’d, but not to be admired.
Passion and pride were to her soul unknown,
Convinc’d that virtue only is our own;
So unaffected, so composed a mind:
So firm, yet soft, so strong, yet so refin’d;
Heaven as its purest gold, by tortures tried:
The saint sustain’d it, but the woman died.

206. From the Unitarian Churchyard, Swansea:—

This humble stone, what few vain marbles can,
May safely say—here lies an honest man.

207. By Dr. Johnson on a Musician:—

Philips, whose touch harmonious could remove
The pangs of guilty power and hopeless love,
Rest here, distressed by poverty no more;
Find here, that calm thou gav’st so oft before;
Sleep undisturbed within this peaceful shrine,
Till angels wake thee with a note like thine.

208. On a Smoker:—

My pipe’s out.

209. From High Wycombe Churchyard.

The following lines are on Mr. Thomas Aldridge, aged 90 years:—

Of no distemper,
Of no blast he died;
But fell
Like autumn fruit,
That’s mellowed long,
E’en wondered at,