For, fince the hour that clos'd our blooming scene, Each conscious walk of tenderness and joy, Thy faithful partner oft alone shall tread; Recount, while anguifh heaves the frequent figh, How blifs on blifs thy fmiling influence shed! Though mine be many-many rolling years! Extatic thought fhall linger ftill on thee; Time rolls in vain-remembrance, with her tears-You that have loft an angel-pity me! Thy fmiles were mine-were oft; and only mine; Painful reflection!-can the active mind, Which penetrates the vaft expanse of day, Long languish in this palfied mafs confin'd, Nor burst these fetters of obtruding clay? Ah, no!-She beckons me-for yet fhe lives! Let Let folly animate this tranfient scena Nor courts this moment, fince the next we die. The dearest objects haften to decay: (An aweful lesson to the penfive mind!) My Charlotte's beauties fo foon pafs'd away: Nor left, but in my heart, a wreck behind. IN 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 feveral parliaments as knight of the shire. 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. Here lies Sir Thomas Scot by name; O hapie Kempe that bore him! Sir Raynold, with four knights of fame, 1 His wiefes were Baker, Heyman, Beere; And feventeen fowles he gayned. His firft wief bore them everie one : The ladie Buckerft's fifter. His widowe lyves in fober forte; He (being call'd to better place) His men and tenants wail'd the daye, Both younge and old in Kent may faye, He made his porter shut his gates And ope them wide to greate estates, And alfo to his neighbors. His His hous was rightlye termed hall, And refuge for the needie; From whence he never stept aside, When any fervis fhold be donne, The rich wold ride, the poore wold runne, He kept tall men, he rydd great hors; He us'd fewe words, but cold difcours. His lyving meane, his chargies greate, But died in rich and happie ftate, Belov'd of man and woman; And (which is yeat much more than that) Ambition he did not regard, No boaster nor no bragger; In juftice he dyd much excele, Let Romney marfh, and Dover faye, But Afhford's proffer paffeth all, RETIREMENT. AN ODE. BY JAMES BEATTIE, A. M. SHOOK from the purple wings of even And from the darkening verge of heaven Beams the fweet ftar of love; Laid |