HIS EPITAPH.
Here lyes the Pearle of France, Parnassus glory;
The World rejoyc'd at 's birth, at 's death, was sorry,
Art and Nature joyn'd, by heavens high decree
Naw shew'd what once they ought, Humanity!
And Natures Law, had it been revocable
To rescue him from death, Art had been able,
But Nature vanquish'd Art, so Bartas dy'd;
But Fame out-living both, he is reviv'd.
Bare truth as every line surely appeared to the woman who wrote, let us give thanks devoutly that the modern mind holds no capacity for the reproduction of that
"Haughty Stile and rapted wit sublime
All ages wond'ring at shall never climb,"
and that more truly than she knew, his
"Sacred works are not for imitation
But Monuments to future Admiration."
Not the "future Admiration" she believed his portion, but to the dead reputation which, fortunately for us, can have no resurrection.
