EPITAPH ON H. WALMSLEY, ESQ., IN ALVERSTOKE CHURCH, HANTS. William Lisle Bowles Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. Bowles, William Lisle, 1762-1850. The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles, Vol. I. With Memoir, Critical Dissertation, and Explanatory Notes by George Gilfillan. Edinburgh James Nichol, 9 North Bank Street... 1855 pp. 141-142.

This e-text is part of the Works section of the Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive (ECPA).

XML created for the Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive (ECPA).

Typography, spelling, capitalization, and punctuation have been cautiously modernized. The source of the text is given and all significant editorial interventions have been recorded in textual notes. This text has been edited to conform to the recommendations found in Level 5 of the Best Practices for TEI in Libraries version 4.0.0.

Library of Congress Name Authority File (LCNAF) text-indent: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center; text-align: right; text-align: left; display: inline font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;
EPITAPH ON H. WALMSLEY , ESQ . , IN ALVERSTOKE CHURCH , HANTS . Oh ! they shall ne'er forget thee , they who knew Thy soul benevolent , sincere , and true ; The poor thy kindness cheered , thy bounty fed , Whom age left shivering in its dreariest shed ; Thy friends , who sorrowing saw thee , when disease Seemed first the genial stream of life to freeze , Pale from thy hospitable home depart , Thy hand still open , and yet warm thy heart ! But how shall she her love , her loss express , Thy widow , in this uttermost distress , When she with anguish hears her lisping train Upon their buried father call in vain ! She wipes the tear despair had forced to flow , She lifts her look beyond this vale of woe , And rests ( while humbled in the dust she kneels ) On Him who only knows how much she feels .