Who many a sturdy oak has laid along, Fell'd by Death's surer hatchet, here lies JOHN SPONG. Post oft he made, yet ne'er a place could get And lived by railing, tho' he was no wit. Old saws he had, although no antiquarian; And stiles corrected, yet was no grammarian. Long lived he Ockham's favourite architect, And lasting as his fame a tomb t' erect, In vain we seek an artist such as he, Whose pales and piles were for eternity. On the tomb of an auctioneer in the churchyard at Corby, in the county of Lincoln, we have found:-- Beneath this stone, facetious wight Lies all that's left of Poor Joe Wright; Few heads with knowledge more informed, Few hearts with friendship better warmed; With ready wit and humour broad, He pleased the peasant, squire, and lord; Until grim death, with visage queer, Assumed Joe's trade of Auctioneer, Made him the Lot to _practise_ on, With "going, going," and anon He knocked him down to "Poor Joe's gone!" In Wimbledon churchyard is the grave of John Martin, a natural son of Don John Emanuel, King of Portugal. He was sent to this country about the year 1712, to be out of the way of his friends, and after several changes of circumstances, ultimately became a gardener. It will be seen from the following epitaph that he won the esteem of his employers:-- To the memory of John Martin, gardener, a native of Portugal, who cultivated here, with industry and success, the same ground under three masters, forty years. Though skilful and experienced, He was modest and unassuming; And tho' faithful to his masters, And with reason esteemed, He was kind to his fellow-servants, And was therefore beloved. His family and neighbours lamented his death, As he was a careful husband, a tender father, and an honest man. This character of him is given to posterity by his last master, willingly because deservedly, as a lasting testimony of his great regard for so good a servant. He died March 30th, 1760. Aged 66 years. For public service grateful nations raise Proud structures, which excite to deeds of praise; While private services, in corners thrown, Howe'er deserving, never gain a stone. But are not lilies, which the valleys hide, Perfect as cedars, tho' the valley's pride? Let, then, the violets their fragrance breathe, And pines their ever-verdant branches wreathe Around his grave, who from their tender birth Upreared both dwarf and giant sons of earth, And tho' himself exotic, lived to see Trees of his raising droop as well as he. Those were his care, while his own bending age, His master propp'd and screened from winter's rage, Till down he gently fell, then with a tear He bade his sorrowing sons transport him here.