While smother'd envy rises in the breast,—
'Oh! that we lived so beauteous and so blest!'
"Come, then, my mistress, and my wife; for she,
Who trusts my honour is the wife for me;
Your slave, your husband, and your friend employ
In search of pleasures we may both enjoy."

To this the Damsel, meekly firm, replied:
"My mother loved, was married, toil'd, and died;
With joys she'd griefs, had troubles in her course,
But not one grief was pointed by remorse :
My mind is fix'd, to Heaven I resign,

And be her love, her life, her comforts mine."
Tyrants have wept; and those with hearts of steel,
Unused the anguish of the heart to heal,

Have yet the transient power of virtue known,
And felt th' imparted joy promote their own.

Our Knight relenting, now befriends a youth,
Who to the yielding maid had vow'd his truth;
And finds in that fair deed a sacred joy,
That will not perish, and that cannot cloy ;-
A living joy, that shall its spirits keep,

When every beauty fades, and all the passions sleep.

True Christian Resignation not frequently to be seen-The Register & melancholy Record-A dying Man, who at length sends for a Priest: for what Purpose? answered-Old Collet of the Inn, an Instance of Dr Young's slow. sudden Death: his Character and Conduct-The Manners and Management of the Widow Goe: her successful Attention to Business: her Decease unexpectod-the Infant-Boy of Gerard Ablett dies: Reflections on his Death, and the Survivor his Sister-Twin-The Funeral of the deceased Lady of the Manor described her neglected Mansion: Undertaker and Train: the Character which her Monument will hereafter display-Burial of an Ancient Maiden: some former drawback on her Virgin Fame: Description of her House and Household: her Manners, Apprehensions, Death-Isaac Ashford, a virtuous Peasant, dies, his manly Character: Reluctance to enter the Poor-House; and why-Misfortune and Derangement of Intellect in Robin Dingley: whence they proceeded: he is not restrained by Misery from a wandering Life: his various returns to his Parish: his final Return-Wife of Farmer Frankford dies in Prime of Life: Affliction in Consequence of such Death: melancholy View of Her House, &c., on her Family's Return from her Funeral: Address to Sorrow-Leah Cousins, a Midwife: her Character; and successful Practice: at length opposed by Dr Glibb: Opposition in the Parish: Argument of the Doctor; of Leah: her Failure and Decease-Burial of Roger Cuff, a Sailor: his Enmity to his Family; how it originated: his Experiment and its Consequence-The Register terminates-A Bell heard: Inquiry for whom? The Sexton-Character of old Dibble, and the five Rectors whom he served-Reflections-Conclusion.

THERE was, 'tis said, and I believe, a time

When humble Christians died with views sublime;
When all were ready for their faith to bleed,
But few to write or wrangle for their creed;
When lively Faith upheld the sinking heart,
And friends, assured to meet, prepared to part;
When Love felt hope, when Sorrow grew serene,
And all was comfort in the death-bed scene.

Alas! when now the gloomy king they wait,
"Tis weakness yielding to resistless fate;
Like wretched men upon the ocean cast,
They labour hard and struggle to the last;
"Hope against hope," and wildly gaze around.
In search of help that never shall be found:
Nor, till the last strong billow stops the breath,
Will they believe them in the jaws of Death!

When these my Records I reflecting read,
And find what ills these numerous births succeed;
What powerful griefs these nuptial ties attend;
With what regret these painful journeys end;

When from the cradle to the grave I look,
Mine I conceive a melancholy book.

Where now is perfect resignation seen?
Alas! it is not on the village-green :-
I've seldom known, though I have often read,
Of happy peasants on their dying-bed;

Whose looks proclaimed that sunshine of the breast,
That more than hope, that Heaven itself express d.
What I behold are feverish fits of strife,
"Twixt fears of dying and desire of life:
Those earthly hopes, that to the last endure;
Those fears, that hopes superior fail to cure;
At best a sad submission to the doom,
Which, turning from the danger, lets it come.
Sick lies the man, bewilder'd, lost, afraid,
His spirits vanquish'd, and his strength decay'd;
No hope the friend, the nurse, the doctor lend-
"Call then a priest, and fit him for his end."
A priest is call'd; 'tis now, alas! too late,
Death enters with him at the cottage-gate;
Or time allow'd-he goes, assured to find
The self-commending, all-confiding mind;
And sighs to hear, what we may justly call
Death's common-place, the train of thought in all.
"True I'm a sinner," feebly he begins,
"But trust in Mercy to forgive my sins:"
(Such cool confession no past crimes excite!
Such claim on Mercy seems the sinner's right!)
"I know mankind are frail, that God is just,
And pardons those who in his Mercy trust;
We're sorely tempted in a world like this-
All men have done, and I like all, amiss;
But now, if spared, it is my full intent
On all the past to ponder and repent:
Wrongs against me I pardon great and small,
And if I die, I die in peace with all."

His merits thus and not his sins confess'd,
He speaks his hopes, and leaves to Heaven the rest
Alas! are these the prospects, dull and cold,
That dying Christians to their priests unfold?
Or mends the prospect when th' enthusiast cries,
"I die assured!" and in a rapture dies?

Ah, where that humble, self-abasing mind,
With that confiding spirit, shall we find;
The mind that, feeling what repentance brings,
Dejection's terrors and Contrition's stings,
Feels then the hope that mounts all care above,
And the pure joy that flows from pardoning love?
Such have I seen in Death, and much deplore,
So many dying-that I see no more:
Lo! now my Records, where I grieve to trace
How Death has triumph'd in so short a space;
Who are the dead, how died they, I relate,
And snatch some portion of their acts from fate.

With Andrew Collett we the year begin,
The blind, fat landlord of the Old Crown Inn,—
Big as his butt, and, for the selfsame use,
To take in stores of strong fermenting juice.
On his huge chair beside the fire he sate,
In revel chief, and umpire in debate;
Each night his string of vulgar tales he told,
When ale was cheap and bachelors were bold:
His heroes all were famous in their days,

Cheats were his boast, and drunkards had his praise:
"One, in three draughts, three mugs of ale took down
As mugs were then-the champion of the Crown;
For thrice three days another lived on ale,
And knew no change but that of mild and stale;
Two thirsty soakers watch'd a vessel's side,
When he the tap, with dext'rous hånd, applied;
Nor from their seats departed, till they found
That butt was out and heard the mournful sound."
He praised a poacher, precious child of fun!
Who shot the keeper with his own spring gun;
Nor less the smuggler who the exciseman tied,
And left him hanging at the birch-wood side,
There to expire ;-but one who saw him hang
Cut the good cord-a traitor of the gang.

His own exploits with boastful glee he told,
What ponds he emptied and what pikes he sold ;
And how, when blest with sight alert and gay,
The night's amusements kept him through the day.
He sang the praises of those times, when all
"For cards and dice, as for their drink, might call;
When justice wink'd on every jovial crew,
And ten-pins tumbled in the parson's view."
He told, when angry wives, provoked to rail,
Or drive a third-day drunkard from his ale,
What were his triumphs, and how great the skill
That won the vex'd virago to his will;

Who raving came ;-then talked in milder strain,—
Then wept, then drank, and pledged her spouse again.
Such were his themes: how knaves o'er laws prevail,
Or, when made captives, how they fly from jail;
The young how brave, how subtle were the old :
And oaths attested all that Folly told.

On death like his what name shall we bestow,

So very sudden! yet so very slow?

"Twas slow:-Disease, augmenting year by year, Show'd the grim king by gradual steps brought near: "Twas not less sudden; in the night he died, He drank, he swore, he jested, and he lied; Thus aiding folly with departing breath:"Beware, Lorenzo, the slow-sudden death."*

Next died the Widow Goe, an active dame, Famed ten miles round, and worthy all her fame; She lost her husband when their loves were young,

* Young.

But kept her farm, her credit, and her tongue:
Full thirty years she ruled, with matchless skill,
With guiding judgment and resistless will;
Advice she scorn'd, rebellions she suppress'd,
And sons and servants bow'd at her behest.
Like that great man's, who to his Saviour came,
Were the strong words of this commanding dame ;-
"Come," if she said, they came; if "Go," were gone;
And if "Do this," that instant it was done:
Her maidens told she was all eye and ear,
In darkness saw and could at distance hear;
No parish-business in the place could stir,
Without direction or assent from her;
In turn she took each office as it fell,
Knew all their duties and discharged them well;
The lazy vagrants in her presence shook,
And pregnant damsels fear'd her stern rebuke;
She look'd on want with judgment clear and cool,
And felt with reason and bestow'd by rule;
She match'd both sons and daughters to her mind,
And lent them eyes, for Love, she heard, was blind;
Yet ceaseless still she throve, alert, alive,
The working bee, in full or empty hive;
Busy and careful, like that working bee,
No time for love nor tender cares had she;

But when our farmers made their amorous vows,
She talk'd of market-steeds and patent-ploughs.
Not unemploy'd her evenings pass'd away,
Amusement closed, as business waked the day;
When to her toilet's brief concern she ran,
And conversation with her friends began,.
Who all were welcome, what they saw, to share;
And joyous neighbours praised her Christmas fare,
That none around might, in their scorn, complain
Of Gossip Goe as greedy in her gain.

Thus long she reign'd, admired, if not approved;
Praised, if not honour'd; fear'd, if not beloved ;-
When, as the busy days of Spring drew near,
That call'd for all the forecast of the year;
When lively hope the rising crops survey'd,
And April promised what September paid;

When stray'd her lambs where gorse and greenweed grow;
When rose her grass in richer vales below;

When pleased she look'd on all the smiling land,
And view'd the hinds, who wrought at her command;
(Poultry in groups still follow'd where she went ;)
Then dread o'ercame her, that her days were spent.
"Bless me! I die, and not a warning giv'n,
With much to do on Earth, and ALL for Heav'n!-
No reparation for my soul's affairs,
No leave petition'd for the barn's repairs;
Accounts perplex'd, my interest yet unpaid,
My mind unsettled, and my will unmade;
A lawyer haste, and in your way, a priest;