Under this stone Rest the remains of Mr. SAMUEL JOHNSON, Afterwards ennobled with the grander Title of LORD FLAME, Who, after being in his life distinct from other Men By the Eccentricities of his Genius, Chose to retain the same character after his Death, and was, at his own Desire, buried here, May 5th, A.D. MDCCLXXIII., Aged 82. Stay thou whom Chance directs, or Ease persuades, To seek the Quiet of these Sylvan shades, Here undisturbed and hid from Vulgar Eyes, A Wit, Musician, Poet, Player, lies A Dancing Master too, in Grace he shone, And all the arts of Opera were his own; In Comedy well skill’d, he drew Lord Flame, Acted the Part, and gain’d himself the Name; Averse to Strife, how oft he’d gravely say These peaceful Groves should shade his breathless clay; That when he rose again, laid here alone, No friend and he should quarrel for a Bone; Thinking that were some old lame Gossip nigh, She possibly might take his Leg or Thigh. On the west side of his tomb a flat stone has been placed in later years, on which some rhyming moralist has sought to improve on his character, in a religious point of view, in a lengthy inscription which says more for the writer’s sense of piety than his regard for prosody:— If chance hath brought thee here, or curious eyes, To see the spot where this poor jester lies, A thoughtless jester even in his death, Uttering his jibes beyond his latest breath; O stranger, pause a moment, pause and say: “To-morrow should’st thou quit thy house of clay, Where wilt thou be, my soul?—in paradise? Or where the rich man lifted up his eyes?” Immortal spirit would’st thou then be blest, Waiting thy perfect bliss on Abraham’s breast; Boast not of silly art, or wit, or fame, Be thou ambitious of a Christian’s name; Seek not thy body’s rest in peaceful grove, Pray that thy soul may rest in Jesus’ love. O speak not lightly of that dreadful day, When all must rise in joy or in dismay; When spirits pure in body glorified With Christ in heavenly mansions shall abide, While wicked souls shall hear the Judge’s doom— “Go ye accursed into endless gloom,” Look on that stone and this, and ponder well: Then choose ’twixt life and death, ’twixt Heaven and Hell. Poor Johnson! His last whim has been gratified: his “breathless clay” reposes beneath the “sylvan shade” that in life he so much delighted in. The thrush and the blackbird sing their orisons and vespers there; the fresh and fragrant breeze sweeps by; and the nodding trees that rustle overhead cast a verdant gloom around, that is brightened only where the warm sunlight steals through the intricacy of leaves and dapples the sward with touches of golden light. May no rude or irreverent hand disturb his resting-place, or “old lame gossip” share his sepulchre.