Verses, Occasioned by the Death of Mrs. Oldfiedd

When greatness claims, or merit gives A more distinguish'd tomb, St. Peter's shrine the corse receives Beneath its awful dome.

There kings in stately marble sleep, And into dust return, While emblematic virtues weep Around the lofty urn.

Profusive of expence and art, Their labour might be sav'd: Useful for them, if on their heart These virtues were engrav'd.

Lo! there inscrib'd the warrior's praise, The fife and laurel-wreath! While Death, more justly crown'd with bays, Grins horribly beneath.

There statesmen lie, emblazon'd forth With virtues, not their own; And, Walpole, there perhaps thy worth May posthumous be known.

In vain, secure of deathless praise, There poets ashes come, Since obsolete grows Chaucer's phrase, And moulders with his tomb.

Lest too in death thy pleasant vein, And humour should be lost, O Rare Ben Johnson, there is seen Thy tragi-comic bust.

Let Dryden's statue, there enshrin'd, Of purest marble stand; Whose wit, to virtue if confin'd, Might one of gold demand:

There Congreve too, consign'd to fame, With envied lustre shine; Yet who the Fair's respect can blame To muse as chaste as thine?

In vain the monuments we raise To future ages live, Nor fond respect, nor venal praise, Can conscious virtue give.

When God our scatter'd dust shall call, And rescue us from death, Will virtue then or stand or fall, On fame, or vulgar breath?

Tho', Oldfield, even in death thy fate Continue still the scene, Lest thou shouldst seem to mimic death, And act, not be a queen,

Pageants, and borrow'd pomp, display (Where Albion's monarchs lie) Thy fancied worth; till the last day Thy real merit try.

For acting of another's part Thy praise may now be known; But then more comfort 'twill impart T' have acted well thy own.