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In Brodsworth, Yorkshire ; on the Hon. Miss DRUMMOND. Here sleeps what once was beauty, once was grace;

Grace, with that tenderness and sense combin'd To form that harmony of soul and face,

Where beauty shines, the mirror of the mind.
Such was the maid, that in the morn of youth,

In virgin innocence, in nature's pride;
Blest with each art that owes its charm to truth,

Sunk in her father's fond embrace and died.
He weeps : O venerate the holy tear!

Faith lends her aid to ease Affliction's load; The parent mourns the child upon the bier, The Christian yields an angel to his God.

MASON.

In Bristol Cathedral, on MARY, the Wife of the Rev. W. Mason, who died March 27, 1767; aged

28 years.

Take, holy earth, all that my soul holds dear,

Take that best gift, which Heav'n so lately gave; To Bristol's fount I bore with trembling care

Her faded form ; she bow'd to taste the wave, And died : does youth, does beauty read the line?

Does sympathetic fear their breast alarm ? Speak, dead Maria, breathe a strain divine ;

E'en from the grave thou shalt have pow'r to charm. Bid them be chaste, be innocent like thee;

Bid them in duty's sphere as meekly move ; And if so fair, from vanity as free,

As firm iņ friendship, and as fond in love;

Tell, tho' 'tis an awful thing to die,

('Twas e'en to thee) yet the dread path once trod, Heav'n lifts its everlasting portals high, And bids the pure in heart behold their God.

MASON.

In Beckenham, Kent ; on MRS. MARY CLARKE, Wife of DR. CLARKE, Physician at Epsom, Surrey : who died 27th April, 1757.

Lo ! where this silent marble weeps,
A friend, a wife, a mother sleeps;
A heart, within whose sacred cell
The peaceful virtues lov’d to dwell;
Affection warm, and faith sincere,
And soft humanity were there ;
In agony, in death resign’d,
She felt the wound she left behind;
Her infant image here below
Sits smiling on a father's woe;
Whom what awaits, while yet he strays.
Along the lonely vale of days,
A pang, to secret sorrow dear,
A sigh, an unavailing tear ;
Till time shall ev'ry grief remove,
With life, with mem'ry, and with love.

GRAY.

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Here lies the bodies of three children dear,
Two buried in the Isle of Wight, the other here.

ON LADY LUCY LYTTLETON.

Made to engage all hearts, and charm all eyes ;
Tho' meek, magnanimous; tho' witty, wise:
Polite, as all her life in courts had been ;
Yet good as she the world had never seen.
The noble fire of an exalted mind,
With gentlest female tenderness combin'd :
Her speech was the melodious voice of love,
Her song, the warbling of the vernal grove :
Her eloquence was sweeter than her song,
Soft as her heart, and as her reason strong ;
Her form each beauty of her mind exprest;
Her mind was virtue by the graces

drest.
LORD LYTTLETON.

On MARIA, from the Carlisle Journal, February, 1820.

A prey to grief and pain no more,

Maria sleeps beneath this tomb;
Whose virtue could no higher soar,

Whose beauty could no sweeter bloom.
Heav'n view'd with care its darling pride,

Too spotless for a world like this ;
Left her awhile to sweeten here,

Then snatch'd her for the realm of bliss.
At morn in pride of youth she shone,

So shines the dew drop on the rose ;
At eve she wither'd pale and wan,

So sinks the dew drop to repose.

ON DR. BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.

The body of
Benjamin Franklin, printer,
Like the cover of an old book,

Its contents worn out,
Stript of its lettering and gilding,

Lies here-food for worms :

Yet, the work shall not be lost,
For it shall (as he believed) appear once more,

In a new and beautiful edition,
Corrected and revised
By the Author,

BY HIMSELF.

In Litchfield Cathedral, on MR. and Miss SEWARD.
Amid these aisles where once his precepts flow'd,
The Heav'nly path-way which in life he trode;
This simple tablet marks a fatber's bier,
And those he loy'd in life are near.
For him, for them a daughter bade it rise,
Memorial of domestic charities;
Still would you know, why o'er the marble spread,
In female grace the willow droops her head,
Why on her branches silent and unstrung,
The Minstrel harp is emblematic hung ;
What Poet's voice is smother'd bere in dust,
Till wak'd to join the chorus of the just !
Lo! one brief line, an answer sad supplies,
Honour'd, belov'd and mourn’d here Seward lies ;
Her worth, her warmth of heart, our sorrows say,
Go seek her genius in her living lay,

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Blush not, marble,
To rescue from oblivion

The memory of
HENRY JENKINS ;
A person obscure by birth,
But of a life truly memorable :

For
He was enriched with the goods of nature,

If not of fortune :
And happy in the duration,
Of a variety of enjoyments ;

And
Tho' the partial world
Despised and disregarded his

Low and humble state,
The equal eye of Providence

Beheld and blessed it
With a patriarch's health and length of days !

To teach mistaken man,
“ These blessings are entailid on temperance,"
“ A life of labour, and a mind at ease.”

He lived to the amazing age of

One hundred and sixty-nine,

Was interred December 6th, 1670,
And had this justice done to his memory, 1743.

As Jenkins was born before parish registers were kept in churches, his age could only be known from circumstances. When a witness on a trial at York, being asked by one of the Judges, what particular battle or other event happened within his memoryhe answered, that when the battle of Flodden was fought, he was turned of twelve years of age, and

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