XXIII.

Juft then the reach'd, with trembling step,
Her aged mother's door-

He's gone! fhe cry'd; and I shall fee

That angel-face no more!

XXIV.

I feel, I feel this breaking heart

Beat high ageinft my fide

From her white arın down funk her head;

She fhivering figh'd, and died.

Extract of a Letter from the Curate of Bowes, in YORKSHIRE, on the Subject of the preceding

Poem.

To Mr. COPPERTHWAITE at MARRICK.

WORTHY SIR,

* As to the affair mentioned in yours, it happened long before my time. I have therefore been obliged to confult my clerk, and another person in the neighbourhood, for the truth of that melancholy event. The history of it is as follows:

THE family-name of the young man was Wrightson; of the young maiden Railton. They were both much of the fame age; that is, growing up to twenty. In their birth was no difparity: but in fortune, alas! fhe was his inferior. His father, a hard old man, who had by his toil acquired a handfome competency, expected and required that his fon fhould marry fuitably.

But as "" amor vincit omnia," his heart was unalterably fixed on the pretty young creature already named. Their courtship, which was all by stealth, unknown to the family, continued about a year. When it was found out, old Wrightfon, his wife, and particularly their crooked daughter Hannah, flouted at the maiden, and treated her with notable contempt. For they held it as a maxim, and a rustic one' it is, "that blood was "nothing without groats."

The young lover fickened, and took to his bed about ́ ́Shrove-Tuesday, and died the Sunday sevennight after.

On the last day of his illness, he defired to see his miftrefs. She was civilly received by the mother, who bid her welcome-when it was too late. But her daughter Hannah lay at his back; to cut them off from all opportunity of exchanging their thoughts.

At her return home, on hearing the bell toll out for his departure, the fcreamed aloud that her heart was burst, and expired fome moments after.

The then curat: of Bowes inferted it in his regiler, that they both died of love, and were buried in the fame grave, March 15, 1714. I am,

DEAR SIR,

Yours, &c.

*Bowes is a finall village in Yorkshire, where in former times the Earls of Richmond had a castle. It ftands on the edge of that vaft and mountainous tract, named by the neighbouring people, Stanemore; which is always expofed to wind and weather, defolate and folitary throughout. CAMD. BRIT.

ON THE DEATH

O F

LADY ANSON.

ADDRESSED TO HER FATHER. 1761.

CROWN'D with honour, bleft with length of days,
Thou whom the wife revere, the worthy praise ;
Just guardian of thofe laws thy voice explain'd,
And meriting all titles thou haft gain'd-
Though ftill the fairest from heaven's bounty flow;
For good and great no monarch can bestow:
Yet thus, of health, of fame, of friends possest,
No fortune, Hardwicke, is fincerely bleft.
All human-kind are fons of forrow born:
The great must suffer, and the good must mourn.
For fay, can Wisdom's felf, what late was thine,
Can fortitude, without a sigh, refign?

Ah, no! when Love, when Reason, hand in hand,
O'er the cold urn confenting Mourners stand,
The firmeft heart diffolves to foften here:
And Piety applauds the falling tear.

Thofe facred drops, by virtuous weakness shed,
Adorn the living, while they grace the dead:

From tender thought their fource unblam'd they draw,

By Heaven approv'd, and true to Nature's law.

When

When his lov'd Child the Roman could not fave, Immortal Tully, from an early grave

No common forms his home-felt paffion kept
The fage, the patriot, in the parent, wept.
And O by grief ally'd, as join'd in fame,
The fame thy lofs, thy forrows are the fame.
She whom the Mufes, whom the Loves deplore,
Ev'n fhe, thy pride and pleafure, is no more:
In bloom of years, in all her virtue's bloom,
Loft to thy hopes, and filent in the tomb.

O feafon mark'd by mourning and despair!
Thy blafts, how fatal to the Young and Fair?
For vernal freshness, for the balmy breeze,
Thy tainted winds came pregnant with disease:
Sick Nature funk before the mortal breath,
That fcatter'd fever, agony, and death!
What funerals has thy cruel ravage spread!
What eyes have flow'd! what noble bofoms bled!
Here let Reflection fix her fober view:

O think, who fuffer, and who figh with you.
See, rudely fnatch'd, in all her pride of charms,
Bright Granby from a youthful husband's arms!
In climes far diftant, fee that husband mourn;
His arms revers'd, his recent laurel torn!
Behold again, at Fate's imperious call,
In one dread inftant blooming Lincoln fall!

See

*Tullia died about the age of two and thirty. She is celebrated for her filial piety; and for having added, to the ufual graces of her fex, the more folid accomplishments of knowledge and polite letters. MALLET.

ON THE DEATH OF LADY ANSON.

See her lov'd Lord with speechless anguish bend!
And, mixing tears with his, thy noblest friend,
Thy Pelham turn on heaven his streaming eye:
Again in her, he fees a brother die!

331

And he, who long, unshaken and serene, Had death, in each dire form of terror, seen, Through worlds unknown o'er unknown oceans toft, By love fubdued, now weeps a confort loft: Now, funk to fondness, all the man appears, His front dejected, and his foul in tears!

Yet more nor thou the Mufe's voice difdain,
Who fondly tries to foothe a father's pain-
Let thy calm eye furvey the fuffering ball:
See kingdoms round thee verging to their fall!
What fpring had promis'd and what autumn yields,
The bread of thousands, ravish'd from their fields !
See youth and age, th' ignoble and the great,
Swept to one grave, in one promifcuous fate!
Hear Europe groan! hear all her nations mourn !
And be a private wound with patience borne.

Think too and reafon will confirm the thought:
Thy cares, for her, are to their period brought.
Yes, fhe, fair pattern to a failing age,

With wit, chaftis'd, with fprightly temper, fage
Whom each endearing name could recommend,
Whom all became, wife, fifter, daughter, friend,
Unwarp'd by folly, and by vice unftain'd,
The prize of virtue has, for ever, gain'd!
From life efcap'd, and safe on that calm shore
Where fin and pain and error are no more,

She