of more perſons of different talents, than any one I have ever known. His head, hand, or heart, was always employed in ſomething worthy imitation; his pencil, his bow (ſtring), or his pen, each of which he uſed in a maſterly manner, were always directed to raiſe, and entertain his own mind, or that of others, to a more chearful proſecution of what is noble and virtuous. Peace be with thy remains, thou amiable ſpirit! but I talk in the language of our weakneſs, that is flown to the regions of immortality, and relieved from the aking engine and painful inſtrument of anguiſh and ſorrow, in which for many tedious years he panted with a lively hope for his preſent condition.’ We ſhall conſign the trunk, in which he was ſo long impriſoned, to common earth, with all that is due to the merit of its inhabitant.[1]
- ↑ There are ſeveral copies of verſes written to the memory of Mr. Hughes, prefixed to Mr. Duncomb’s edition of his poems, of which one by a lady who has withheld her name, deſerves particular diſtinction.
