Near this place lies the body of JOSEPH CAVE, Late of this parish; Who departed this life Nov. 18, 1747, Aged 79 years. He was placed by Providence in a humble station; but industry abundantly supplied the wants of nature, and temperance blest him with content and wealth. As he was an affectionate father, he was made happy in the decline of life by the deserved eminence of his eldest son, EDWARD CAVE, who, without interest, fortune, or connection, by the native force of his own genius, assisted only by a classical education, which he received at the Grammar School of this town, planned, executed, and established a literary work called _The Gentleman's Magazine_, whereby he acquired an ample fortune, the whole of which devolved to his family. Here also lies The body of WILLIAM CAVE, second son of the said JOSEPH CAVE, who died May 2, 1757, aged 62 years, and who, having survived his elder brother, 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.