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To her, long used to nature's simple ways,

This single spot was happines complete;

Her tree could shield her from the noon-tide blaze, And from the tempest screen her little seat. Here with her Colin oft the faithful maid

Had led the dance, the envious youths among : Here, when his aged bones in earth were laid, The patient matron turn'd her wheel and sung, She felt her loss; yet felt it as she ought,

Nor dared 'gainst nature's general law exclaim; But check'd her tears, and to her children taught That well known truth, "Their lot would be the same."

Though Thames before her flow'd, his farther shores

She ne'er explored; contented with her own. And distant Oxford, though she saw its towers, To her ambition was a world unknown.

Did dreadful tales the clowns from market bear
Of kings and tumults, and the courtier train,
She coldly listen'd with unheeding ear,
And good queen Anne, for ought she cared,
might reign.

The sun her day, the seasons mark'd her year, She toil'd, she slept, from care, from envy free, For what had she to hope, or what to fear,

Blest with her cottage, and her favourite tree. Hear this ye great, whose proud possessions spread O'er earths' rich surface to no space confined; Ye learn'd in arts, in men, in manners read, Who boast as wide an empire o'er the mind, With reverence visit her august domain;

To her unletter'd memory bow the knee: She found that happiness you seek in vain, Blest with a cottage, and a single tree.

INSCRIPTION, IN THE GARDENS AT NUNEHAM, IN OXFORDSHIRE.

To the Memory of Walter Clark, Florist, who died suddenly near this spot, 1784.

ON him whose very soul was here,
Whose duteous, careful constant toil

Has varied with the varying year,

To make the gay profession smile;

Whose harmless life in silent flow

Within these circling shades has past, What happier death could Heaven bestow, Than in these shades to breathe his last?

'Twas here he fell: not far removed

Has earth received him in her breast; Still far beside the scenes he loved, In holy ground his relicks rest. Each clambering woodbine, flaunting rose, Which round yon bower he taught to wave, With every fragrant brier that blows, Shall send a wreath to bind his grave.

Each village matron, village maid,

Shall with chaste fingers chaplets tie.

Due honours to the rural dead,
And emblems of mortality.

Each village swain that passes by,

A sigh shall to his memory give;

For sure his death demands a sigh,
Whose life instructs them how to live.

If spirits walk, as fabling age

Relates to childhood's wondering ear,

Full oft, does fancy dare presage,
Shall Walter's faithful shade be here;

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Athwart yon glade, at night's pale noon,
Full oft shall glide with busy feet,
And by the glimmering of the moon
Revisit each beloved retreat:

Perhaps the tasks on earth he knew
Resume, correct the gadding spray,
Brush from the plants the sickly dew,
Or chase the noxious worm away.
The bursting buds shall gladlier grow,

No midnight blasts the flowers shall fear;

And many a fair effect shall show

At noon that Walter has been here.

Nay, every morn, in times to come,
If quainter ringlets curl the shade,
If richer breezes breathe perfume,

If softer swell the verdant glade,
If neatness charm a thousand ways,
Till nature almost art appear,
Tradition's constant favourite theme,

Shall be-Poor Walter has been here.

MOSES BROWNE.

1703-1787.

This writer was originally a pen-cutter, but he took orders, and obtained the vicarage of Olney, and was also chaplain to Morden College; he was one of the first contributors to the Gentleman's Magazine, and obtained some of the prizes offered by Mr. Cave for the best Poems; besides some dramatick pieces, and an edition of Isaac Walton's Complete Angler; he published, 1 a volume of Poems, 1739. 2 Sunday Thoughts, a Poem, 1749 3 Percy Lodge, a descriptive Poem, 1756. His Piscatory Eclogues were reprinted in 1773.

He seems to have enjoyed life to the very last. Cooper had wished for his Parsonage for Lady Hesketh • But Moses Browne our Vicar,' he says, ' who as I told you is in his eighty-sixth year, is not bound to die for that reason;' he said himself when he was here last summer, 'that he should live ten years longer, and for ought that appears, so he may.' His letter is dated 1786, and if its statement be accurate, as seems probable, Browne must have been born in 1700.

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