INSCRIPTION IV.

EPITAPH on KING JOHN.

John rests below. A man more infamous
Has never held the sceptre of these realms,
And bruised beneath the iron rod of Power,
The oppressed men of England. Englishman!
Curse not his memory. Murderer as he was,
Coward and slave, yet he it was who sign'd
That charter which should make thee morn and night
Be thankful for thy birth-place: Englishman!
That holy charter, which, should'st thou permit
Force to destroy, or Fraud to undermine,
Thy children's groans will persecute thy soul,
For they must bear the burthen of thy crime.

INSCRIPTION V.

In a FOREST.

Stranger! whose steps have reach'd this solitude,
Know that this lonely spot was dear to one
Devoted with no unrequited zeal

To Nature. Here, delighted he has heard
The rustling of these woods, that now perchance
Melodious to the gale of summer move,

And underneath their shade on yon smooth rock
With grey and yellow lichens overgrown,
Often reclined, watching the silent flow
Of this perspicuous rivulet, that steals
Along its verdant course, till all around
Had fill'd his senses with tranquillity,
And ever sooth'd in spirit he return'd

A happier, better, man. Stranger, perchance
Therefore the stream more lovely to thine eye
Will glide along, and to the summer gale

The woods wave more melodious. Cleanse thou then
The weeds and mosses from this letter'd stone.

INSCRIPTION VI.

For a MONUMENT at TAUNTON.

They perish'd here whom Jefferies doom'd to death
In mockery of all justice, when he came
The bloody Judge, the minion of his King,
Commission'd to destroy. They perish'd here
The victims of that Judge and of that King,
In mockery of all justice perish'd here,
Unheard! but not unpitied, nor of God
Unseen, the innocent suffered! not in vain
The Widow and the Orphan, not in vain
The innocent blood cried vengeance! for they rose,
At length they rose, the People in their power,
Resistless. Then in vain that bloody Judge
Disguis'd, sought flight: not always is the Lord
Slow to revenge! a miserable man

He fell beneath the people's rage, and still

The children curse his memory. From his throne The sullen bigot who commission'd him,

The tyrant James was driven. He lived to drag
Long years of frustrate hope, he lived to load
More blood upon his soul. Let tell the Boyne,
Let Londonderry tell his guilt and shame,
And that immortal day when on thy shores
La Hogue, the purple ocean dash'd the dead!

INSCRIPTION VII.

For a TABLET at PENSHURST.

Are days of old familiar to thy mind

O Reader? hast thou let the midnight hour
Pass unperceived, whilst thy young Fancy lived
With high-born beauties and enamour'd chiefs,
Shared all their hopes, and with a breathless joy
Whose eager expectation almost pain'd,
Followed their dangerous fortunes? if such lore
Has ever thrill'd thy bosom, thou wilt tread
As with a pilgrim's reverential thoughts
The groves of Penshurst. Sidney here was born,
Sidney, than whom no gentler, braver man
His own delightful genius ever feign'd
Illustrating the vales of Arcady

With courteous courage and with loyal loves.
Upon his natal day the acorn here

Was planted. It grew up a stately oak,