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PEACOCK 67
His epitaph I wrote, as inserted below ;
What tribute more friendly could I on him bestow ?
The bard craves one shilling of his own dear mother,
And, if you think proper,
add to it another.
That epitaph is better known, but deserves
to be better still :
Here lies interred, in silent shade,
The frail remains of Hamlet Wade ;
A youth more promising ne'er took breath ;
But ere fifteen laid cold in death !
Ye young, ye old, and ye of middle age,
Act well your part, for quit the stage
Of mortal life, one day you must,
And, like him, crumble into dust.
Surely the boy of nine years
old who wrote
this was destined to be something better than
a minor poet. And did not the delightful
mother who encouraged him to express himself
deserve something better for her son ? Indeed,
he must have been an enchanting child, with
his long, flaxen curls, bright colouring, and
fine, intelligent head. One fancies him a
happy creature, making light work of his
Greek and Latin grammar at Mr. Wicks's
school on Englefield Green, at home spoilt
and educated, in the best and most literal
sense of the word, by his pretty mother and
his gallant old grandfather. No wonder Queen
Charlotte, driving in Windsor Park, stopped