nown, but have filled the heart of
their country with everlasting gratitude. Yet I must here pause to
correct myself. In describing the general tenor of thought which
epitaphs ought to hold, I have omitted to say, that if it be the
_actions_ of a man, or even some _one_ conspicuous or beneficial act of
local or general utility, which have distinguished him, and excited a
desire that he should be remembered, then, of course, ought the
attention to be directed chiefly to those actions or that act: and such
sentiments dwelt upon as naturally arise out of them or it. Having made
this necessary distinction, I proceed.--The mighty benefactors of
mankind, as they are not only known by the immediate survivors, but will
continue to be known familiarly to latest posterity, do not stand in
need of biographic sketches, in such a place; nor of delineations of
character to individualise them. This is already done by their Works, in
the memories of men. Their naked names, and a grand comprehensive
sentiment of civic gratitude, patriotic love, or human admiration--or
the utterance of some elementary principle most essential in the
constitution of true virtue;--or a declaration touching that pious
humility and self-abasement, which are ever most profound as minds are
most susceptible of genuine exaltation--or an intuition, communicated in
adequate words, of the sublimity of intellectual power;--these are the
only tribute which can here be paid--the only offering that upon such an
altar would not be unworthy.

What needs my Shakspeare for his honoured bones
The labour of an age in piled stones,
Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid
Under a star y-pointing pyramid?
Dear Son of Memory, great Heir of Fame,
What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name?
Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Hast built thyself a livelong monument,
And so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie,
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.

(_b_) THE COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD, AND CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF ANCIENT
EPITAPHS.

_From the Author's Mss._

Yet even these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by the unletter'd Muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply,
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rust