Farewel! and think of death!—­was it not so? 
  Do murtherers then, preach morality? 
  But how to think of what the living know not,
  And the dead cannot, or else may not tell! 
  What art thou?  O thou great mysterious terror! 
  The way to thee, we know; diseases, famine,
  Sword, fire, and all thy ever open gates,
  That day and night stand ready to receive us. 
  But what, beyond them? who will draw that veil? 
  Yet death’s not there.——­No, ’tis a point of time;
  The verge ’twixt mortal, and immortal Being. 
  It mocks our thought——­On this side all is life;
  And when we’ve reach’d it, in that very instant,
  ’Tis past the thinking of——­O if it be
  The pangs, the throes, the agonizing struggle,
  When soul and body part, sure I have felt it! 
  And there’s no more to fear.

’The gentleman (continues Sir Richard) to whose memory I devote this paper, may be the emulation 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[A].

[Footnote A:  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.]

* * * * *

Matthew prior, Esq;

This celebrated poet was the son of Mr. George Prior, citizen of London, who was by profession a Joiner.  Our author was born in 1664.  His father dying when he was very young, left him to the care of an uncle, a Vintner near Charing-Cross, who discharged the trust that was reposed in him, with a tenderness truly paternal, as Mr. Prior always acknowledged with the highest professions of gratitude.  He received part of his education at Westminster school, where he distinguished himself to great advantage, but was afterwards taken home by his uncle in order to be bred up to his trade.  Notwithstanding this mean employment, to which Mr. Prior seemed now doomed, yet at his leisure hours he prosecuted his study of the classics, and especially his favourite Horace, by which means he was soon taken notice of, by the polite company, who resorted to his uncle’s house.  It happened one day, that the earl of Dorset being