Edward Cave,
inherited from him a competent estate; and, in gratitude to his benefactor, ordered this monument to perpetuate his memory.
| He lived a patriarch in his numerous race, And shew’d in charity a Christian’s grace: Whate’er a friend or parent feels he knew; His hand was open, and his heart was true; In what he gain’d and gave, he taught mankind A grateful always is a generous mind. Here rests his clay! his soul must ever rest, Who bless’d when living, dying must be blest. |
The well-known blacksmith’s epitaph, said to be written by the poet Hayley, may be found in many churchyards in this country. It formed the subject of a sermon delivered on Sunday, the 27th day of August, 1837, by the then Vicar of Crich, Derbyshire, to a large assembly. We are told that the vicar appeared much excited, and read the prayers in a hurried manner. Without leaving the desk, he proceeded to address his flock for the last time; and the following is the substance thereof: “To-morrow, my friends, this living will be vacant, and if any one of you is desirous of becoming my successor he has now an opportunity. Let him use his influence, and who can tell but he may be honoured with the title of Vicar of Crich. As this is my last address, I shall only say, had I been a blacksmith, or a son of Vulcan, the following lines might not have been inappropriate:—
| My sledge and hammer lie reclined, My bellows, too, have lost their wind; My fire’s extinct, my forge decayed, And in the dust my vice is laid. My coal is spent, my iron’s gone, My nails are drove, my work is done; My fire-dried corpse lies here at rest, And, smoke-like, soars up to be bless’d. |
If you expect anything more, you are deceived; for I shall only say, Friends, farewell, farewell!” The effect of this address was too visible to pass unnoticed. Some appeared as if awakened from a fearful dream, and gazed at each other in silent astonishment; others for whom it was too powerful for their risible nerves to resist, burst into boisterous laughter, while one and all slowly retired from the scene, to exercise their future cogitations on the farewell discourse of their late pastor.
From Silkstone churchyard we have the following on a potter and his wife:—
In memory of John Taylor, of Silkstone, potter, who departed this life, July 14th, Anno Domini 1815, aged 72 years.
Also Hannah, his wife, who departed this life, August 13th. 1815, aged 68 years.
| Out of the clay they got their daily bread, Of clay were also made. Returned to clay they now lie dead, Where all that’s left must shortly go. To live without him his wife she tried, Found the task hard, fell sick, and died. And now in peace their bodies lay, Until the dead be called away, And moulded into spiritual clay. |