Toby's benevolence each heart expand,
And faithful Trim confess the master's hand.

«

* One generous tear unto the Monk you gave; Oh let me weed this nettle from thy grave! »

AN EPITAPH

FOR THE REV. LAURENCE STERNE'S TOMBSTONE: BY A LADY.

STERNE,

TERNE, rest for ever, and no longer fear The critic's censure, or the coxcomb's sneer. The gate of Envy now is clos'd on thee,

And Fame her hundred doors shall

open free:

Ages unborn shall celebrate the page,

Where friendly join the satirist and sage.

O'er Yorick's tomb the brightest eyes shall weep,
And British Genius mournful vigils keep;

Then, sighing, say, to vindicate thy fame :

« Great were his faults, but glorious was his flame. »

INSCRIPTION

On a monument erected to the memory of the author in the burying ground in which he was interred.

NEAR TO THIS PLACE

LIES THE BODY OF

THE REVEREND LAURENCE STERNE, A. M.
DIED SEPTEMBER XIII, 1768 **,

AGED 53 YEARS.

AH! MOLLITER OSSA QUIESCANT!

*See Sentimental Journey.

**This date is erroneous; L. Sterne being dead on the th

18 day of march, 1768.

If a sound head, warm heart, and breast humane,
Unsullied worth, and soul without a stain;

If mental powers could ever justly claim
The well-won tribute of immortal fame,
Sterne was THE MAN, who with gigantic stride
Mowed down luxuriant follies far and wide.
Yet what, though keenest knowledge of mankind
Unseal'd to him the springs that move the mind,
What did it cost him? Ridicul'd, abus'd,
By fools insulted, and by prudes accus'd.
In his, mild reader, view thy future fate,
Like him despise what 'twere a sin to hate.

Favour'd pupil of nature and fancy, of yore

Whom from humour's embrace sweet philantropy bore;
While the Graces and Loves scatter flow'rs on thy urn,
And Wit weeps the blossom too hastly torn,
This meed, too kind spirit, un-offended receive
From a youth next to Shakespear's who honours thy grave.

Garrick, who was the intimate friend and admirer of Sterne, wrote the following epitaph for him.

Shall pride a heap of sculptured marble raise,
Some worthless, un-mourn'd titled fool to praise;
And shall we not by one poor grave-stone learn,
Where genius, wit, and humour, sleep with Sterne?

The following verses to his memory were also prefixed to the collection of his letters, published by his daughter Mrs. Medalle.

With wit, and genuine humour, to dispel,
From the desponding bosom, gloomy care,
And bid the gushing tear, at the sad tale
Of hapless love or filial grief, to flow
From the full sympathizing heart, were thine
These powers, O Sterne! but now thy fate demands
(No plumage nodding o'er the emblazoned hearse
Proclaiming honour where no virtue shone).
But the sad tribute of a heart-felt sigh:
What tho' no taper cast its deadly ray,

Nor the full choir sings requiems o'er thy tomb,
The humbler grief of friendship is not mute;
And
poor Maria, with her faithful kid,
Her auburn tresses carelessly entwin'd
With olive foliage, at the close of day,
Shall chant her plaintive vespers at thy grave.
Thy shade too, gentle Monk, mid awful night,
Shall pour libations from its friendly eye;
For 'erst his sweet benevolence bestow'd
Its generous pity, and bedewed with tears
The sod, which rested on thy aged breast.

EXTRACT

Of a letter from the author to his daughter. *

I am apprehensive the dear friend I mentioned in my last letter is going into a decline➡ I was with her two days ago, and I never beheld a being so altered - she has a tender frame, and looks like a drooping lily, for the roses are fled from her cheeks- I can never see or talk to this incomparable woman without bursting into tears. * See Yorick's Letters to Eliza Draper.

I have a thousand obligations to her, and I owe her more than her whole sex, if not all the world put together. She has a delicacy in her way of thinking that few possess ·

our conversations are

of the most interesting nature, and she talks to me of quitting this world with more composure than others think of living in it. I have written an epitaph, of which I send thee a copy. - 'Tis expressive of her modest worth. But may heaven restore her! and may she live to write mine!

Columns and laboured urns but vainly shew
An idle scene of decorated woe.

The sweet companion and the friend sincere
Need no mechanic help to force the tear.
In heart-felt numbers, never meant to shine,
"Twill flow eternal o'er a hearse like thine;
"Twill flow, whilst gentle goodness has one friend,
Or kindred tempers have a tear to lend.

Say all that is kind of me to thy mother, and believe me, my Lydia, that I love thee most truly So adieu-I am what I ever was, and hope

ever shall be, thy

Affectionate father.

L. S.

A SENTIMENTAL

JOURNEY

THROUGH FRANCE AND ITALY.

I.

-THEY order, said I, this matter better in

France

- You have been in France? said my gentleman, turning quick upon me with the most civil triumph in the world. - Strange ! quoth I, debating the matter with myself, that one and twenty miles sailing, for 'tis absolutely no further from Dover to Calais, should give a man these rights. - I'll look into them : so giving up the argument -I went straight to my lodgings, put up half a dozen shirts and a black pair of silk breeches <<< the coat I have on», said I, looking at the sleeve, « will do, » — took a place in the Dover stage; and the packet sailing at nine the next morning - by three I had got sat down to my dinner upon a fricassee'd chicken, so incontestably in France, that, had I died that night of an indigestion, the whole world could not have suspended the effects of the droit d'aubaine*—my shirts,

* All the effects of strangers (Swiss and Scotch excepted) dying in France, were seized by virtue of this