antage. One or two perfect specimens, indeed, we
possess, but the success of a single writer must be set against the
failure of a great many. Of our good epitaphs, the very best, in our
opinion, is that on the Countess Dowager of Pembroke, the sister of Sir
Philip Sidney, by Ben Jonson. Although it has been often quoted, we cannot
exclude it from this paper:

Underneath this sable hearse
Lies the subject of all verse,
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother:
Death, ere thou hast slain another,
Fair, and wise, and good as she,
Time shall throw his dart at thee.

Another of Jonson's epitaphs, although more rugged in versification, is
also deserving of quotation;

Underneath this stone doth lie
As much virtue as could die;
Which, when alive, did vigor give
To as much beauty as could live.
If she had a single fault,
Leave it buried in this vault.

Not a few of Pope's epitaphs, as we have before hinted, appear tame,
insipid, and characterized by a false taste. We except the well-known
couplet for the monument of Sir Isaac Newton, in which there are dignity
of language and boldness of conception:

Nature and nature's laws lay hid in night;--
God said, "Let Newton be!" and all was light.

David Garrick is the author of some very good and characteristic epitaphs.
The best, is that on Claudius Philips, the musician, who lived and died in
great poverty. It was some time ascribed to Dr. Johnson, but is now known
to be the production of Garrick:

Philips, whose touch harmonious could remove
The pangs of guilty power and hapless love,
Rest here, distress'd by poverty no more,
Here find that calm thou gav'st so oft before;
Sleep undisturbed within this peaceful shrine,
Till angels wake thee with a note like thine.

Another of Garnet's epitaphs, is that on Mr. Havard, the comedian, who
died in 1778. It is described by the author as a tribute "to the memory of
a character he long knew and respected." Whatever its merits as a
composition, the professional metaphor introduced is sadly out of place:

"An honest man's the noblest work of God."
Havard, from sorrow rest beneath this stone;
An honest man--beloved as soon as known;
Howe'er defective in the mimic art,
In real life he justly played his part!
The noblest character he acted well,
And heaven applauded when the curtain fell.

The one on William Hogarth, in Chiswick Churchyard, by Garrick, is in
better taste: