For, fince the hour that clos'd our blooming scene,
Once has it wander'd from its darling truft?
It founds thy voice; ftill animates thy mien,
And haunts thy flumbers in the facred duft.

Each conscious walk of tenderness and joy,

Thy faithful partner oft alone shall tread;

Recount, while anguifh heaves the frequent figh,

How blifs on blifs thy fmiling influence shed!

Though mine be many-many rolling years! Extatic thought fhall linger ftill on thee; Time rolls in vain-remembrance, with her tears-You that have loft an angel-pity me!

Thy fmiles were mine-were oft; and only mine;
Nor yet forfook me in the face of death:
E'en now they live-ftill o'er thy beauties shine:
For fancy's magic can reftore thy breath.

Painful reflection!-can the active mind,

Which penetrates the vaft expanse of day, Long languish in this palfied mafs confin'd, Nor burst these fetters of obtruding clay?

Ah, no!-She beckons me-for yet fhe lives!
Lives in yon regions of unfading joy!
She points the fair reward that virtue gives;
-Which chance, nor change, nor ages can deftroy.

Let

Let folly animate this tranfient scena
With every bloom that fancy can fupply :
Reflection bends not on a point fo mean;

Nor courts this moment, fince the next we die.

The dearest objects haften to decay:

(An aweful lesson to the penfive mind!) My Charlotte's beauties fo foon pafs'd away: Nor left, but in my heart, a wreck behind.

IN Peck's collection of historical pieces (which is in but few hands) is the following curious and entertaining epitaph, written in the reign of queen Elizabeth upon Sir Thomas Scot, of Scot's hall, Kent, who died Dec. 30, 1594, and was buried at Bradborn church. His mother was the daughter of Sir William Kemp. He served in feveral parliaments as knight of the shire. In 1588, upon the council's fending him a letter on the Wednesday acquainting him with the approach of the Spanish armada, he sent 4000 men to Dover on the Thursday.

Here lies Sir Thomas Scot by name;

O hapie Kempe that bore him!

Sir Raynold, with four knights of fame,
Lyv'd lineally before him.

1

His wiefes were Baker, Heyman, Beere;
His love to them unfayned;
He lyved nine and fifty yeare;

And feventeen fowles he gayned.

His firft wief bore them everie one :
The world myght not have myft her!
She was a verie paragon,

The ladie Buckerft's fifter.

His widowe lyves in fober forte;
No matron more difcreter:
She still reteiynes a good reporte,
And is a good howsekeeper.

He (being call'd to better place)
Did what might best behove him.
The queen of England gave him grace;
The King of Heav'n did love him.

His men and tenants wail'd the daye,
His kin and cuntrie cried!

Both younge and old in Kent may faye,
Woe worth the day he died.

He made his porter shut his gates
To fycophants and briebors;

And ope them wide to greate estates,

And alfo to his neighbors.

His

His hous was rightlye termed hall,
Whose bred and beef was redie;
It was a verie hospitall,

And refuge for the needie;

From whence he never stept aside,
In winter nor in fummer;
In Christmas time he did provide
Good cheere for every comer.

When any fervis fhold be donne,
He lyeked not to lyngar;

The rich wold ride, the poore wold runne,
If he held up his finger.

He kept tall men, he rydd great hors;
He did indite most finely;

He us'd fewe words, but cold difcours.
Both wifely and dyvinelye.

His lyving meane, his chargies greate,
His daughters well bestowed;
Although that he were left in debt,
In fine, he nothing owed;

But died in rich and happie ftate,

Belov'd of man and woman;

And (which is yeat much more than that)
He was envy'd of no man.

Ambition he did not regard,

No boaster nor no bragger;
He spent, and lookt for no reward:
He cold not play the bagger.

In juftice he dyd much excele,
In law he never wrangled;
He loov'd rellygion wondrous well,
But he was not new fangled.

Let Romney marfh, and Dover faye,
Afk Norborn camp at leyfeur,
If he were wont to make delaye,
To doe his countrye pleasure.

But Afhford's proffer paffeth all,
It was both rare and gentle,
They would have payd his funerale,
T' have entomb'd him in their temple.

RETIREMENT.

AN ODE.

BY JAMES BEATTIE, A. M.

SHOOK from the purple wings of even
When dews impearl the grove,

And from the darkening verge of heaven

Beams the fweet ftar of love;

Laid