This as, (my Duty done) some Scholar read.
A Village-Father look'd Disdain, and said:

"Away, my Friends! why take such pains to know,
"What some brave Marble, soon in Church shall show?
"Where not alone, her gracious Name shall stand,
"But how she liv'd, the Blessing of the Land;
"How much we all deplor'd the noble Dead,
"What Groans we utter'd and what Tears we shed ;-
"Tears, true as those, that in the sleepy Eyes,
"Of weeping Cherubs, on the Stone shall rise;
"Tears, true as those, that, ere she found her Grave,
"The nobly Lady, to our Sorrows gave.”—

Down by the Church-way-walk, and where the Brook Winds round the Chancel, like a Shepherd's Crook; In that small House, with those green Pales before, Where Jasmine trails on either side the Door; Where those dark Shrubs that now grow wild at will, Were clipt in Form and tantaliz'd with Skill; Where Cockles blanch'd, and Pebbles neatly spread, Form'd shining Borders for the Larkspurs' Bed ;— There liv'd a LADY, wise, austere, and nice, Who shew'd her Virtue, by her Scorn of Vice; In the dear Fashions of her Youth she dress'd, A pea-green Joseph was her favourite Vest; Erect she stood, she walk'd with stately Mien, Tight was her Length of Stays, and she was tall and lean.

There long she liv'd in Maiden-State immur'd,

From Looks of Love and treacherous Man secur'd;

Though Evil-Fame-(but that was long before)
Had blown her dubious Blast at CATHARINE'S Door:-
A Captain thither, rich from India came,

And though a Cousin call'd, it touch'd her Fame:
Her annual Stipend rose from his Behest,

And all the long-priz'd Treasures, she possess'd:-
If aught like Joy awhile appear'd to stay,

In that stern Face, and chace those Frowns away;
'Twas when those Treasures she dispos'd for View,
And heard the Praises, to their Splendour due:
Silks beyond Price, so rich they'd stand alone,
And Diamonds blazing on the buckled Zone;
Rows of rare Pearls, by curious workmen set,
And Bracelets fair, in Box of glossy Jet;
Bright polish'd Amber precious from its Size,
Or Forms, the fairest Fancy could devise:
Her Draw'rs of Cedar, shut with secret Springs,
And held the golden Watch, the Ruby-Rings;
Letters, long Proofs of Love, and Verses fine
Round the pink'd Rims of crisped Valentine.
Her China Closet, cause of daily Care,
For Woman's Wonder, held her pencill'd ware;
That pictur'd wealth of China and Japan,
Like its cold Mistress, shunn'd the Eye of Man.
Her neat small Room, adorn'd with Maiden-Taste,
A clipt French-Puppy first of Favourites grac'd.
A Parrot next, but dead, and stuff'd with art;
(For Poll, when living, lost the Lady's Heart,
And then his Life; for he was heard to speak,
Such frightful words as ting'd the Lady's Cheek ;)

Unhappy Bird! who had no power to prove,
Save by such Speech, his gratitude, and Love.
A grey old Cat his whiskers lick'd beside;
A type of Sadness in the House of Pride.
The polish'd Surface of an India-Chest,
A glassy Globe, in Frame of Ivory, prest;
Where swam two finny Creatures; one of Gold,
Of Silver one; both beauteous to behold:

All these were form'd, the guiding Taste to suit;
The Beasts well-manner'd, and the Fishes mute:
A widow'd Aunt was there, compell'd by Need,
The Nymph to flatter and her Tribe to feed;
Who, veiling well her Scorn, endur'd the Clog,
Mute as the Fish and fawning as the Dog.

As years increas'd, these treasures her delight,
Arose in value, in their Owner's sight:-
A Miser knows that, view it as he will,
A Guinea kept, is but a Guinea still:
And so he puts it to its proper Use,

That something more this Guinea may produce:-
But Silks and Rings in the Possessor's Eyes,
The oft❜ner seen, the more in Value rise,
And thus are wisely hoarded, to bestow,

On Pride that governs, Pleasure that will grow.
But what avail'd their worth,-if worth had they,-
In the sad Summer of her slow Decay?

Then we beheld her turn an anxious Look

From Trunks and Chests, and fix it on her Book; A rich-bound Book of Prayer, the Captain gave, (Some Princess had it, or was said to have,)

And then once more, on all her Stores, look round
And draw a sigh so piteous and profound,

That told, "Alas! how hard from these to part,
And for new Hopes and Habits form the Heart!
What shall I do (she cried) my Peace of Mind,
To gain in dying, and to die resign'd?"

'Hear,' we return'd;-'these Bawbles cast aside,
Nor give thy GOD a Rival, in thy Pride;
Thy Closets shut, and ope thy Kitchen's Door;
There own thy Failings, here invite the Poor;
A Friend of Mammon let thy Bounty make,
For Widows' Prayers, thy Vanities forsake;
And let the Hungry, of thy Pride, partake:
Then shall thy inward Eye with joy survey,
The angel Mercy tempering Death's delay!'
Alas! 'twas hard; the Treasures still had charms,
Hope still its Flattery, Sickness its Alarms;
Still was the same unsettled, clouded, View,
And the same plaintive Cry, "What shall I do?"

Nor change appear'd; for, when her Race was run, Doubtful we all exclaim'd, "What has been done?" Apart she liv'd, and still she lies alone;

Yon earthly Heap, awaits the flattering Stone,
On which Invention shall be long employ'd

To shew the various worth of CATHARINE LLOYD.

Next to these Ladies, but in nought allied, A noble Peasant, ISAAC ASHFORD, died. Noble he was, contemning all things mean, His truth unquestion'd, and his Soul serene:

Of no Man's presence, ISAAC felt afraid;
At no Man's question, ISAAC look'd dismay'd:
Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace;
Truth, simple truth was written in his Face:
Yet while the serious thought his Soul approv'd,
Cheerful he seem'd, and Gentleness he lov'd:
To bliss domestic he his Heart resign'd,
And with the firmest, had the fondest Mind:
Were others joyful, he look'd smiling on,
And gave allowance where he needed none;
Good he refus'd, with future Ill to buy,
Nor knew the Joy, that caus'd Reflection's Sigh;
A friend to Virtue, his unclouded Breast

No Envy stung, no Jealousy distress'd,

(Bane of the Poor! that wounds their weaker mind,
Who miss one Comfort, that their Neighbours find:)
Yet far was he from Stoic-pride remov'd;
He felt, with many, and he warmly lov'd:
I mark'd his action, when his Infant died,
And an old Neighbour for Offence was tried;
The still tears, stealing down that furrow'd Cheek,
Spoke Pity, plainer than the tongue can speak.
If Pride were his, 'twas not their vulgar Pride,
Who, in their base contempt, the Great deride;
Nor Pride in Learning, though my clerk agreed,
If Fate should call him, ASHFORD might succeed;
Nor Pride in rustic skill, although he knew,
More skilful none, and skill'd like him, but few:-
But if that Spirit, in his Soul, had place,

It was the jealous Pride that shuns Disgrace: