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For, since the hour that clos'd our blooming scene,

Once has it wander'd from its darling trust? It sounds thy voice; still animates thy mien,

And haunts thy slumbers in the sacred duft.

Each conscious walk of tendernefs and joy,

Thy faithful partner oft alone shall tread; Recount, while anguish heaves the frequent figh,

How bliss on bliss thy smiling influence shed !

Though mine be many—many rolling years !

Extatic thought shall linger still on thee; Time rolls in vain-remembrance, with her tears

- You that have loft an angel-pity me !

Thy smiles were mine-were oft; and only mine; Nor

yet forsook me in the face of death : E’en now they live-still o'er thy beauties shine:

For fancy's magic can restore thy breath.

Painful reflection -can the active mind,

Which penetrates the vast expanse of day, Long languish in this palsied mass confin’d,

Nor burst these fetters of obtruding clay?

Ah, no!-She beckons me--for yet the lives !

Lives in yon regions of unfading joy! She points the fair reward that virtue gives; -Which chance, nor change, nor ages can destroy.


Let folly animate this transient scena

With every bloom that fancy can supply : Reflection bends not on a point so mean;

Nor courts this moment, since the next we die.

The dearest objects haiten to decay:

(An aweful lesson to the pensive mind !) My Charlotte's beauties fo foon pass’d away:

Nor left, but in my heart, a wreck behind.

N 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 several parliaments as knight of the thire. 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.

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Here lies Sir Thomas Scot by name;

Ohapie Kempe that bore him!
Sir Raynold, with four knights of fame,

Lyv'd lineally before him.

His wiefes were Baker, Heyman, Beere;

His love to them unfayned; He lyved nine and fifty yeare;

And seventeen fowles he gayned.

His first wief bore them everie one :

The world myght not have myft her! She was a verie paragon,

The ladie Buckerít's fifter.

His widowe lyves in sober sorte;

No matron more discreter :
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 sycophants and briebors;
And ope them wide to greate estates,

And also to his neighbors.


His hous was rightlye termed hally

Whose bred and beef was redie; It was a verie hofpitall,

And refuge for the needie;

From whence he never stept aside,

In winter nor in summer;
In Christmas time he did provide

Good cheere for every comer.



fervis fhold be donne, He lyeked not to lyngar ; The rich wold ride, the poore


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 discours.

Both wisely 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 state,

Belov'd of man and woman;
And (which is yeat much more than that)

He was envy'd of no man.

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Ambition he did not regard,

No boaster nor no bragger ;
He spent, and lookt for no reward :

He cold not play the bagger.

In justice he dyd much excele,

In law he never wrangled;
He loov’d rellygion wondrous well,

But he was not new fangled.
Let Romney marsh, and Dover saye,

Ask Norborn camp at leyseur,
If he were wont to make delaye,

To doe his countrye pleasure.

But Ashford's proffer passeth all,

It was both rare and gentle,
Thy would have payd his funerale,

T' have entomb'd him in their temple.




SHOOK from the purple wings of even

When dews impearl the grove,
And from the darkening verge of heaven

Beams the sweet star of love;


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