ON DR. BENJAMIN FRANKLIŃ.

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 father's bier,

And those he lov'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 here 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,

BOLTON, YORKSHIRE.

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 entail'd on temperance,"
"A life of labour, and a mind at ease.'

He lived to the amazing age

One hundred and sixty-nine,

of

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 memory— he answered, that when the battle of Flodden was fought, he was turned of twelve years of age, and

saw the Earl of Surrey march northward at the head, of his army. That the Earl rested with the army one day at Northallerton, and an order was sent from him to all the neighbouring parishes to furnish each a certain number of bows and arrows; and that being in harvest, the arrows were sent on horseback, attended by some of the boys, all the men being employed in reaping. That he was sent to take care of the horses belonging to Bolton, and saw the arrows delivered at Northallerton; after which he brought home the horses, and in a few days heard that the Scots were defeated and their King slain. Being asked how he had lived, he said by thatching, and salmon fishing; that when he was served with a subpoena, he was thatching a house; and would dub a hook with any man in Yorkshire. That he had been Butler to Lord Conyners, of Hornby Castle, and that Marmaduke Brodelay, Lord Abbot of Fountains, did frequently visit his Lordship and drink a hearty glass with him. That his Lord often sent him to inquire how the Abbot did, who always sent for him to his apartment; and after ceremonies (as Ohe called) passed, ordered him, besides wassel, a quarter of a yard of roast beef for his dinner, (for that monastery did deliver their guests' meat by measure), and a great black jack of strong drink. Being further asked, if he remembered the dissolution of religious houses, he said very well, and that he was between thirty and forty years of age, when the order came to dissolve those in Yorkshire. That great lamentation was made, and the country was all in a tumult when the monks were turned out. Jenkins 1 could neither read nor write; he retained his sight and hearing to the last.

1

Nothing can more clearly prove the age of this

man than the above account; for James IV. entered England on the 24th of August, 1513, and the Earl of Surrey began his march from York on the first of September. He reviewed his army at Boroughbridge, and halted next day at Northallerton, from whence he marched north, and the battle was fought on the 9th of September, 1513; so that if Jenkins was turned of twelve at that time, he must have been born about 1500, and dying in 1670, he was at least one hundred and sixty-nine years of age.

What a multitude of events, says an ingenious author, have crowded themselves into the period of this man's life. He was born when the Roman Catholic religion was established by law. He saw the supremacy of the Pope overturned; the dissolution of monasteries; Popery established again, and at last the Protestant Religion securely fixed on a rock of adamant. In his time the invincible armada was destroyed; the Republic of Holland formed. Three Queens beheaded, Anne Boylen, Catherine Howard, and Mary Queen of Scots; a King of Spain seated upon the throne of England; a King of Scotland crowned King of England, at Westminster, and his son beheaded before his own Palace, his family being proscribed as traitors; and last of all the great fire in London, which happened in 1666, at the latter end of his wonderful life.

ON MISS STANLEY.

Here Stanley rests, escap'd this mortal strife,
Above the joys, beyond the woes of life.

Fierce pangs no more thy lively beauties stain,
And sternly try thee with a year of pain:
No more sweet patience, feigning oft relief,
Lights thy sick eye to cheat a parent's grief;
With tender art, to save her anxious groan,
No more thy bosom presses down its own:
Now, well-earn'd peace is thine and bliss sincere,
Ours be the lenient, not unpleasing tear.
O born to bloom! then sink beneath the storm,
To shew us Virtue in her fairest form;
To shew us artless Reason's moral reign,
What boastful Science arrogates in vain ;
The obedient passions knowing each their part,
Calm light the head, and harmony the heart.
Yes, we must follow soon; we'll glad obey,
When a few suns have roll'd their cares away:
Tir'd with vain life, we'll close the willing eye;
"Tis the great birth-right of mankind to die.
Bless'd be the bark that wafts us to the shore,
Where death-divided friendship parts no more,
To join thee there, here with thy dust repose,
Is all the hope thy hapless mother knows.

THOMSON.

On a beautiful young LADY, who died December, 1818; aged 18 years.

Alas! 'tis vain that storied marbles tell,

The life-the loss-of those we lov'd so well;
Yet memory hovers o'er a hallow'd name,
And fondly sues for monumental fame.
If early beauty bursting into bloom,

Snatch'd to the sad, safe, refuge of the tomb;