He’s gone from us, in more seraphick lays
In Heaven to chant the Great Jehovah’s praise;
Again to join him in those courts above,
Let’s here exalt God’s name with mutual love.

The following was written in memory of Madame Malibran, who died September 23rd, 1836:—

“The beautiful is vanished, and returns not.”
’Twas but as yesterday, a mighty throng,
Whose hearts, as one man’s heart, thy power could bow,
Amid loud shoutings hailed thee queen of song,
And twined sweet summer flowers around thy brow;
And those loud shouts have scarcely died away,
And those young flowers but half forgot thy bloom,
When thy fair crown is changed for one of clay—
Thy boundless empire for a narrow tomb!
Sweet minstrel of the heart, we list in vain
For music now; THY melody is o’er;
Fidelio hath ceased o’er hearts to reign,
Somnambula hath slept to wake no more!
Farewell! thy sun of life too soon hath set,
But memory shall reflect its brightness yet.

Garrick’s epitaph, in Westminster Abbey, reads:—

To paint fair Nature by divine command,
Her magic pencil in his glowing hand,
A Shakespeare rose; then, to expand his fame
Wide o’er the breathing world, a Garrick came:
Tho’ sunk in death, the forms the poet drew
The actor’s genius bade them breathe anew;
Tho’, like the bard himself, in night they lay,
Immortal Garrick call’d them back to day;
And till eternity, with power sublime,
Shall mark the mortal hour of hoary time,
Shakespeare and Garrick, like twin stars shall shine,
And earth irradiate with beams divine.

A monument placed in Westminster to the memory of Mrs. Pritchard states:—

This Tablet is here placed by a voluntary subscription of those who admired and esteemed her. She retired from the stage, of which she had long been the ornament, in the month of April, 1768; and died at Bath in the month of August following, in the 57th year of her age.

Her comic vein had every charm to please,
’Twas nature’s dictates breath’d with nature’s ease;
Ev’n when her powers sustain’d the tragic load,
Full, clear, and just, the harmonious accents flow’d,
And the big passions of her feeling heart
Burst freely forth, and show’d the mimic art.
Oft, on the scene, with colours not her own,
She painted vice, and taught us what to shun;
One virtuous track her real life pursu’d,
That nobler part was uniformly good;
Each duty there to such perfection wrought,
That, if the precepts fail’d, the example taught.

On a comedian named John Hippisley, interred in the churchyard of Clifton, Gloucestershire, we have the following:—