EPITAPH ON LORD BYRON.
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Lo! Byron's tomb!— Here, deeply pensive, scan The greatness,—and the littleness of man. In timeless death here Freedom's Martyr sleeps, Whom, her lost Champion, Greece, desponding, weeps. The impassion'd Bard, whose Genius, wing'd with flame, Swept, like a comet, through the sphere of fame, Dazzling the astonish'd world, lies buried here. Thus human Glory ends its bright career. To Byron what high gifts did heaven impart! An intellect sublime, a feeling heart; But ah! his wild desires, his passions strong, Hurried him irresistibly along Wherever Pleasure call'd, through good, or ill; No law could bridle his own proud self-will. O! had but Virtue ruled his mighty mind, Byron had been—the first of human kind!

EPITAPH ON SIR SAMUEL ROMILLY.
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What, what can knowledge, virtue, fame, avail? Crown they with happiness our mortal state? Ah! no: what dire, unthought-of woes assail! O wretched Man! thou art the slave of fate. Lo! Romilly, in pangs, expiring lies!— His frantic hand—O horror!—doom'd to bleed?— His wakening Conscience opes her frighted eyes— 'O God!' she groans, 'I disavow the deed.' His guardian Angel sheds a pitying tear;— Then, fearless of the heavenly Judge's ire, He leads his Spirit, blushing to appear, Into the holy presence of her Sire.

EPITAPH ON WILBERFORCE.
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Champion of justice and humanity, He toil'd, through life, to set the Negro free: At length, Britannia spoke the godlike word— Burst were the bonds, the shouts of Freedom heard! Thy life-bonds, too, O Wilberforce! were riven, Thy task was done,—it was thy call to heaven!

EPITAPH.
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Mortal! whoe'er thou art, that passest by, Stop, and behold this stone with heedful eye! Here lies a Youth, whom Death's resistless power, In health's full vigour, at the festal hour, All unprepared, alas! to meet his doom, Snatch'd suddenly to an untimely tomb. Mortal take heed!—in awful silence think, Thou stand'st upon Eternity's dread brink; O listen to Religion's warning cry!— 'Man, know thy nature, and prepare to die!'

TRANSLATED FROM ANACREON.
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Though thou hast seen my locks are gray, Ah! do not, Julia, turn away; Nor, though the bloom of Spring is thine, Disdainfully my love decline. Behold yon wreath!—how lovely shows The snowy lily with the blushing rose!