Full many an Elegy has mourn’d its fate, Beneath some pasty cabin’d, cribb’d, confin’d; Full many an Ode has soar’d in lofty state, Fix’d to a kite, and quivering in the wind. Here too perhaps, neglected now, may lie The rude memorial of some ancient song, Whose martial strains and rugged minstrelsy Once waked to rapture every listening throng. To trace fair Science through each wildering course, With new ideas to enlarge the mind, With useful lessons, drawn from classic source, At once to polish and instruct mankind, Their times forbade: nor yet alone repress’d Their opening fancy; but alike confined The senseless ribaldry, the scurvy jest, And each low triumph of the vulgar mind. Their humbler science never soar’d so far, In studious trifles pleased to waste their time. Or wage with common sense eternal war, In never ending clink of monkish rhyme. Yet were they not averse to noisy fame, Or shrank reluctant from her ruder blast, But still aspired to raise their sinking name, And fondly hoped that name might ever last. Hence each proud volume, to the wondering eye, Rivals the gaudy glare of Tyrrel’s[16] urn; Where ships, wigs, Fame, and Neptune blended lie, And weeping cherubs for their bodies mourn. For who with rhymes e’er rack’d his weary brain, Or spent in search of epithets his days, But from his lengthen’d labours hoped to gain Some present profit or some future praise? Though folly’s self inspire each dead-born strain, Still flattery prompts some blockhead to commend; Perhaps e’en Timon hath not toil’d in vain, Perhaps e’en Timon hath as dull a friend. For thee, whose muse with many an uncouth rhyme Dost in these lines neglected worth bewail, If chance (unknowing how to kill the time) Some kindred idler should enquire thy tale; Haply some ancient Fellow may reply―― “Oft have I seen him, from the dawn of day, E’en till the western sun went down the sky Lounging his lazy listless hours away: “Each morn he sought the cloister’s cool retreat; At noon at Tom’s he caught the daily lie, Or from his window looking o’er the street Would gaze upon the travellers passing by; “At night, encircled with a kindred band, In smoke and ale roll’d their dull lives away; True as the college clock’s unvarying hand, Each morrow was the echo of to-day. “Thus, free from cares, and children, noise and wife, Pass’d his smooth moments; till, by Fate’s command, A lethargy assail’d his harmless life, And check’d his course, and shook his loitering sand. “Where Merton’s towers in Gothic grandeur rise, And shed around each soph a deeper gloom, Beneath the centre aisle interr’d he lies, With these few lines engrav’d upon his tomb”―― THE EPITAPH.