Here CUMBERLAND lies, having acted his parts;
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;
A flattering painter, who made it his care
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are.
His gallants are all faultlefs, his women divine,
And Comedy wonders at being fo fine;
Like a tragedy queen, he has dizen'd her out;
Or, rather like Tragedy, giving a rout.

His fools have their follies, fo loft in a crowd
of virtues and failings, that Folly grows proud;
And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone,`
Adopting his portraits, are pleas'd with their own.
Say, where has our Poet, this malady caught,
Or wherefore his characters thus without fault?
Say, was it, that vainly directing his view,
To find out men's virtues, and finding them few,
Quite fick of pursuing each troublesome elf,
He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself?

Here DOUGLAS retires, from toils to relax,

The fcourge of impoftors, the terror of quacks:
Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines,
Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines:
When Satire and Cenfure encircled his throne,
I fear'd for your fafety-I fear'd for my own.

But now he is gone, and we want a detector,

Our Dodds fhall be pious, our Kenricks shall lecture; Macpherson

D 2

Macpherson write bombaft, and call it a style;

Our Townsend make speeches, and I shall compile;
New Lauders and Bowers, the Tweed fhall crofs over,
No countryman living their tricks to discover:
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark,

And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark.
Here lies DAVID GARRICK, describe me who can,
An abridgement of all that was pleasant in mani
As an actor, confefs'd without rival to shine;
As a wit, if not firft, in the very first line.
Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart,
The man had his failings, a dupe to his art:
Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he fpread,
And be-plafter'd with rouge his own natural red.
On the ftage he was natural, fimple, affecting;
'Twas only that when he was off, he was acting.
With no reason on earth to go out of his way,
He turn'd, and he varied, full ten times a day.
Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick,
If they were not his own by fineffing and trick:
He caft off his friends, as a huntsman his pack,

For he knew when he pleas'd he could whistle them back.
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd' what came,
And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for Fame ;-
Till his relifh grown callous, almost to disease,

pper'd the highest was fureft to please :

But

But let us be candid, and speak out our mind;
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind.

Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls fo grave,

What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave? How did Grub-street re-echo the fhouts that you rais'd, While he was be-Rofcius'd, and you were be-prais'd? But peace to his fpirit, wherever it flies,

To act as an angel, and mix with the skies:

Thofe poets, who owe

their beft fame to his skill,

Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will;

Old Shakespeare, receive him, with praise and with love, And Beaumonts and Behns be his Kellys above.

Here HICKEY reclines, a moft blunt pleasant creature; And Slander itself, muft allow him good-nature; He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper, Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper. Perhaps you may ask if the man was a mifer? I anfwer, No, no; for he always was wiser. Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat?

His very

worft foe can't accuse him of that.

Perhaps he confided in men as they go,

And fo was too foolishly honest?-Ah, no!

Then what was his failing? come tell it, and burn ye➡

He was, could he help it? a special attorney,

Here REYNOLDS is laid; and, to tell you my mind, He has not left a wifer or better behind;,

His pencil was firiking, refiftlefs, and grand;
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland ;
Still born to improve us in every part,

His pencil our faces, his manners our heart;

To coxcombs averfe, yet moft civilly steering,

When they judg'd without skill, he was ftill hard of hearing:

When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios, and stuff, He shifted his trumpet, * and only took snuff.

POSTSCRIPT.

HERE WHITEFOORD reclines, and deny it who can,

Tho' he merily liv'd, he is now a grave man †:

Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun!
Who relifh'd a joke, and rejoic'd in a pun;
Whofe temper was generous, open, fincere,
A ftranger to flatt'ry, a ftranger to fear;

*Sir Joshua Reynolds is fo remarkably deaf as to be under the neceffity of using an ear-trumpet in company.

Mr. W. was fo notorious a punfter, that Dr. Goldfmith used to fay, it was impoffible to keep him company, without being infected with the itch of punning.

Who

Who scatter'd around wit and humour at will;
Whose daily bon mots half a column might fill :
A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free;
A fcholar, yet furely no pedant was he.

What pity, alas! that fo liberal a mind
Should fo long be to news-paper effays confin'd!
Who perhaps to the fummit of science could foar,
Yet content" if the table he fet in a roar;"
Whofe talents to fill any station were fit,

Yet happy if Woodfall * confefs'd him a wit.

Ye news-paper witlings! ye pert fcribbling folks!
Who copy'd his squibs, and re-echo'd his jokes:
Ye tame imitators, ye fervile herd, come;

Still follow your master, and visit his tomb:
To deck it, bring with you feftoons of the vine,
And copious libations bestow on his shrine;
Then ftrew all around it—you can do no lefs→→→
Cross-readings, fhip-news, and mistakes of the prefst.

Merry Whitefoord, farewel! for thy fake I admit
That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said wit:
This debt to thy mem'ry I cannot refuse-

Thou beft humour'd man with the worst humour'd "mufe."

* Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser. Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces under thofe titles in the Public Advertiser.