An angel beckoned and her spirit flew,
But oh! her last look it cut our souls in two.
ST. MARY’S, CAMBRIDGE.
On John Foster, Esq. of that town.
Nomen, decus, Tellus meum,
Quid referunt hæc ad te
Genus etiamque meum,
Clarum quid aut humile?Forsan omnes alios longè
Ego antecellui,
Forsan cunctis aliis valdè
(Nam quid tunc?) succubui.Ut hoc tu vides tumulum
Hospes certè satis est,
Ejus tu scis benè usum
Tegit—“Nihil” interest.
Translation.
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.”
CAMBRIDGE.
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.
ELY.
In the Cathedral is the following numerical curiosity:—