SIR ISAAC NEWTON.

  Nature and Nature’s laws lay hid in night: 
  God said, “Let Newton be!” and all was light.
Epitaph.  A. POPE.

  DAVID GARRICK.

  Here lies David Garrick—­describe me, who can. 
  An abridgement of all that was pleasant in man. 
  As an actor, confessed without rival to shine;
  As a wit, if not first, in the very first line.
Retaliation.  O. GOLDSMITH.

  EDMUND BURKE.

   Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such,
  We scarcely can praise it, or blame it, too much;
  Who, born for the universe, narrowed his mind. 
  And to party gave up what was meant for mankind. 
  Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat,
  To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote: 
  Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,
  And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining;
  Though equal to all things, for all things unfit,
  Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit;
  For a patriot too cool; for a drudge disobedient;
  And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. 
  In short, ’twas his fate, unemployed, or in place, sir,
  To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.
Retaliation.  O. GOLDSMITH.

  RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

  Whose humor, as gay as the firefly’s light,
    Played round every subject, and shone as it played;—­
  Whose wit, in the combat, as gentle as bright,
    Ne’er carried a heart-stain away on its blade;—­
  Whose eloquence—­brightening whatever it tried,
    Whether reason or fancy, the gay or the grave—­
  Was as rapid, as deep, and as brilliant a tide,
    As ever bore freedom aloft on its wave!
Lines on the Death of Sheridan.  T. MOORE.

  Long shall we seek his likeness,—­long in vain. 
  And turn to all of him which may remain,
  Sighing that Nature formed but one such man. 
  And broke the die—­in moulding Sheridan!
Monody on the Death of Sheridan.  LORD BYRON.

  GEORGE WASHINGTON.

  While Washington’s a watchword, such as ne’er
  Shall sink while there’s an echo left to air.
Age of Bronze.  LORD BYRON.

  DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

  O good gray head which all men knew,
  O voice from which their omens all men drew,
  O iron nerve to true occasion true,
  O fallen at length that tower of strength
  Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew! 
  Such was he whom we deplore. 
  The long self-sacrifice of life is o’er. 
  The great World-victor’s victor will be seen no more.
On the Death of the Duke of Wellington.  A. TENNYSON.

  OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

  His nature’s a glass of champagne with the foam on ’t. 
  As tender as Fletcher, as witty as Beaumont;
  So his best things are done in the flash of the moment.
A Fable for Critics.  J.R.  LOWELL.