| ON SEEING THE APOLLO BELVIDERE. |
| —————— |
| What majesty! what elegance and grace! The form how perfect! how divine the face! In admiration rapt, I gazing stand:— Is this a statue wrought by mortal hand? No! 'tis Apollo's self, methinks I see; I feel the presence of the Deity. |
| INSCRIPTION FOR THE APOLLO BELVIDERE. |
| —————— |
| O all ye Sons of Taste! with raptured sight Behold this image of the God of light; Admire its whole, admire its every part; 'Tis sculpture's master-work, the boast of Art. Not with more glory in his heavenly sphere The God appears, than in his Image here. |
| EPITAPH ON NELSON. |
| —————— |
| Lo! here are Nelson's honour'd relics laid;— Britons! your Country's Genius calls you here, And bids you pay to your lost Hero's shade The noble homage of a patriot tear. Against the fleets of Gallia, Denmark, Spain, Full oft Britannia's war-bolts he has hurl'd; Stretch'd forth her sceptre o'er the vanquish'd main, And with her glory fill'd the astonish'd world. His matchless triumphs shall the voice of Fame, With loud applause, to latest ages tell; Still uttering with a sigh Trafalgar's name, Where last he conquer'd, where—alas! he fell. |
| EPITAPH ON HOWARD. |
| —————— |
| Ye! who this hallow'd ground with reverence tread, Where sleep in honour'd urns the illustrious dead, To trace the achievements of the Sons of Fame, And pay just worship to each godlike name; (If, blest with hearts that melt at human wo, And feel philanthropy's celestial glow,) Midst all the monuments that court your view, And claim the debt to buried merit due, Mark chiefly this;—on this with tearful eyes More fondly gaze;—beneath it Howard lies! O'er other urns mere mortals only mourn; Celestial Beings honour Howard's urn; Benevolence sits weeping on his stone; Heaven's Angel still, though on her earthly throne. |
| EPITAPH ON VOLTAIRE. |
| —————— |
| Here lies interr'd Voltaire; no letter'd name Can boast more brilliant, more extensive fame. On him what various gifts did heaven confer!— Poet, historian, wit, philosopher; But ah!—peruse it, Christian, with a tear— The chief of infidels lies buried here: Lament the abuse of such rare talents given; Lament such dire ingratitude to heaven. |