In Memory of George Phillpot,
Who died March 22nd, 1850, aged 74 years.
Full many a life he saved
With his undaunted crew;
He put his trust in Providence,
And cared not how it blew.
A hero; his heroic life and deeds, and the philosophy of religion, perfect both in theory and practice, which inspired them, all described in four lines of graphic and spirited verse! Would not ‘rare Ben’ himself have acknowledged this a good specimen of ‘what verse can say in a little?’ Whoever wrote it was a poet ‘with the name.’”
“There is another in the same churchyard, which though weak after the above, and indeed not uncommon, I fancy, in seaside towns, is at least sufficiently quaint:—
In Memory of James Epps Buttress, who, in rendering assistance to the French Schooner, “Vesuvienne,” was drowned, December 27th, 1852, aged 39.
Though Boreas’ blast and Neptune’s wave
Did toss me to and fro,
In spite of both, by God’s decree,
I harbour here below;
And here I do at anchor ride
With many of our fleet,
Yet once again I must set sail,
Our Admiral, Christ, to meet.
Also two sons, who died in infancy, &c.
The ‘human race’ typified by ‘our fleet,’ excites vague reminiscences of Goethe and Carlyle, and ‘our Admiral Christ’ seems not remotely associated in sentiment with the ‘We fight that fight for our fair father Christ,’ and ‘The King will follow Christ and we the King,’ of our grand poet. So do the highest and the lowest meet. But the heartiness, the vitality, nay, almost vivacity, of some of these underground tenantry is surprising. There is more life in some of our dead folk than in many a living crowd.”
We copied the following five epitaphs from Hessle-road cemetery, Hull:—
William Easton,
Who was lost at sea,
In the fishing smack Martha,
In the gale of January, 1865.
Aged 30 years.
When through the torn sail the wild tempest is streaming;
When o’er the dark wave the red lightning is gleaming,
No hope lends a ray the poor fisher to cherish.
Oh hear, kind Jesus; save, Lord, or we perish!
In affectionate remembrance of
Thomas Crackles
Humber Pilot, who was drowned off
The Lincolnshire Coast,
During the gale, October 19th, 1869.
Aged 24 years.
How swift the torrent rolls
That hastens to the sea;
How strong the tide that bears our souls
On to Eternity.
In affectionate remembrance of
David Collison,
Who was drowned in the “Spirit of the Age,”
Off Scarborough, Jan. 6th, 1864.
Aged 36 years.
I cannot bend over his grave,
He sleeps in the secret sea;
And not one gentle whisp’red wave
Can tell that place to me.
Although unseen by human eyes,
And mortal know’d it not;
Yet Christ knows where his body lies,
And angels guard the spot.
Robert Pickering, who was
Drowned from the smack “Satisfaction,”
On the Dutch coast, May 7, 1869.
Aged 18 years.
The waters flowed on every side,
No chance was there to save;
At last compelled, he bowed and died,
And found a watery grave.
In affectionate remembrance of
William Harrison,
53 years Mariner of Hull,
Who died October 5th, 1864.
Aged 70 years.
Long time I ploughed the ocean wide,
A life of toil I spent;
But now in harbour safe arrived
From care and discontent.
My anchor’s cast, my sails are furled,
And now I am at rest.
Of all the parts throughout the world,
Sailors, this is the best.
Our next example is copied from a stone which is so fast decaying that already some parts of the inscription are obliterated:—