William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Georgian Verse. 1909.
Epitaph, Intended for HimselfJames Beattie (17351803)
E
Here leaves its moulding tenement of clay,
Safe, where no cares their whelming billows roll,
No doubts bewilder, and no hopes betray.
Like thee, have languish’d after empty joys;
Like thee, have labour’d in the stormy strife;
Been griev’d for trifles, and amus’d with toys.
Let steady Reason urge the struggling oar;
Shot through the dreary gloom, the morn at last
Gives to thy longing eye the blissful shore.
Forgive my lapses, for thyself may’st fall;
Nor read, unmov’d, my artless tender tale;
I was a friend, O man, to thee, to all.