Are these true tender tears? and does my Kitty grieve?

Ah! crafty vixen, thine old man has fears; But weep no more! I'm melted by thy tears; Spare but my money; thou shalt rule ME still, And see thy cousins: --there! I burn the will."

Thus, with example sad, our year began, A wanton vixen and a weary man; But had this tale in other guise been told, Young let the lover be, the lady old, And that disparity of years shall prove No bane of peace, although some bar to love: 'Tis not the worst, our nuptial ties among, That joins the ancient bride and bridegroom young; - Young wives, like changing winds, their power display By shifting points and varying day by day; Now zephyrs mild, now whirlwinds in their force, They sometimes speed, but often thwart our course; And much experienced should that pilot be, Who sails with them on life's tempestuous sea.

But like a trade-wind is the ancient dame, Mild to your wish and every day the same; Steady as time, no sudden squalls you fear, But set full sail and with a.s.surance steer; Till every danger in your way be past, And then she gently, mildly breathes her last; Rich you arrive, in port awhile remain, And for a second venture sail again.

For this, blithe Donald southward made his way, And left the la.s.ses on the banks of Tay; Him to a neighbouring garden fortune sent, Whom we beheld, aspiringly content: Patient and mild he sought the dame to please, Who ruled the kitchen and who bore the keys.

Fair Lucy first, the laundry's grace and pride, With smiles and gracious looks, her fortune tried; But all in vain she praised his "pawky eyne,"

Where never fondness was for Lucy seen: Him the mild Susan, boast of dairies, loved, And found him civil, cautious, and unmoved: From many a fragrant simple, Catherine's skill Drew oil and essence from the boiling still; But not her warmth, nor all her winning ways, From his cool phlegm could Donald's spirit raise: Of beauty heedless, with the merry mute, To Mistress Dobson he preferr'd his suit; There proved his service, there address'd his vows, And saw her mistress,--friend,--protectress,--spouse; A butler now, he thanks his powerful bride, And, like her keys, keeps constant at her side.

Next at our altar stood a luckless pair, Brought by strong pa.s.sions and a warrant there; By long rent cloak, hung loosely, strove the bride, From every eye, what all perceived, to hide, While the boy-bridegroom, shuffling in his pace, Now hid awhile and then exposed his face; As shame alternately with anger strove, The brain confused with muddy ale, to move In haste and stammering he perform'd his part, And look'd the rage that rankled in his heart; (So will each lover inly curse his fate, Too soon made happy and made wise too late:) I saw his features take a savage gloom, And deeply threaten for the days to come.

Low spake the la.s.s, and lisp'd and minced the while, Look'd on the lad, and faintly tried to smile; With soften'd speech and humbled tone she strove To stir the embers of departed love: While he, a tyrant, frowning walk'd before, Felt the poor purse, and sought the public door, She sadly following, in submission went, And saw the final shilling foully spent; Then to her father's hut the pair withdrew, And bade to love and comfort long adieu!

Ah! fly temptation, youth, refrain! refrain!

I preach for ever; but I preach in vain!

Two summers since, I saw at Lammas Fair The sweetest flower that ever blossom'd there, When Phoebe Dawson gaily cross'd the Green, In haste to see, and happy to be seen: Her air, her manners, all who saw admired; Courteous though coy, and gentle though retired; The joy of youth and health her eyes display'd, And ease of heart her every look convey'd; A native skill her simple robes express'd, As with untutor'd elegance she dress'd; The lads around admired so fair a sight, And Phoebe felt, and felt she gave, delight.

Admirers soon of every age she gain'd, Her beauty won them and her worth retain'd; Envy itself could no contempt display, They wish'd her well, whom yet they wish'd away.

Correct in thought, she judged a servant's place Preserved a rustic beauty from disgrace; But yet on Sunday-eve, in freedom's hour, With secret joy she felt that beauty's power, When some proud bliss upon the heart would steal, That, poor or rich, a beauty still must feel.

At length the youth ordain'd to move her breast, Before the swains with bolder spirit press'd; With looks less timid made his pa.s.sion known, And pleased by manners most unlike her own; Loud though in love, and confident though young; Fierce in his air, and voluble of tongue; By trade a tailor, though, in scorn of trade, He served the 'Squire, and brush'd the coat he made.

Yet now, would Phoebe her consent afford, Her slave alone, again he'd mount the board; With her should years of growing love be spent, And growing wealth;--she sigh'd and look'd consent.

Now, through the lane, up hill, and 'cross the green: (Seen by but few, and blushing to be seen - Dejected, thoughtful, anxious, and afraid,) Led by the lover, walk'd the silent maid; Slow through the meadows roved they, many a mile, Toy'd by each bank, and trifled at each stile; Where, as he painted every blissful view, And highly colour'd what he strongly drew, The pensive damsel, p.r.o.ne to tender fears, Dimm'd the false prospect with prophetic tears.- Thus pa.s.s'd th' allotted hours, till lingering late, The lover loiter'd at the master's gate; There he p.r.o.nounced adieu! and yet would stay, Till chidden--soothed--entreated--forced away; He would of coldness, though indulged, complain, And oft retire, and oft return again; When, if his teasing vex'd her gentle mind, The grief a.s.sumed compell'd her to be kind!

For he would proof of plighted kindness crave, That she resented first, and then forgave; And to his grief and penance yielded more Than his presumption had required before.

Ah! fly temptation, youth; refrain! refrain!

Each yielding maid and each presuming swain!

Lo! now with red rent cloak and bonnet black, And torn green gown loose hanging at her back, One who an infant in her arms sustains, And seems in patience striving with her pains; Pinch'd are her looks, as one who pines for bread, Whose cares are growing--and whose hopes are fled; Pale her parch'd lips, her heavy eyes sunk low, And tears unnoticed from their channels flow; Serene her manner, till some sudden pain Frets the meek soul, and then she's calm again; - Her broken pitcher to the pool she takes, And every step with cautious terror makes; For not alone that infant in her arms, But nearer cause, her anxious soul alarms.

With water burthen'd, then she picks her way, Slowly and cautious, in the clinging clay; Till, in mid-green, she trusts a place unsound, And deeply plunges in th' adhesive ground; Thence, but with pain, her slender foot she takes, While hope the mind as strength the frame forsakes; For when so full the cup of sorrow grows, Add but a drop, it instantly o'erflows.

And now her path, but not her peace, she gains, Safe from her task, but shivering with her pains; Her home she reaches, open leaves the door, And placing first her infant on the floor, She bares her bosom to the wind, and sits, And sobbing struggles with the rising fits: In vain they come, she feels the inflating grief, That shuts the swelling bosom from relief; That speaks in feeble cries a soul distress'd, Or the sad laugh that cannot be repress'd.

The neighbour-matron leaves her wheel and flies With all the aid her poverty supplies; Unfee'd, the calls of Nature she obeys, Not led by profit, not allur'd by praise, And waiting long, till these contentions cease, She speaks of comfort, and departs in peace.

Friend of distress! the mourner feels thy aid; She cannot pay thee, but thou wilt be paid.

But who this child of weakness, want, and care?

'Tis Phoebe Dawson, pride of Lammas Fair; Who took her lover for his sparkling eyes, Expressions warm, and love-inspiring lies: Compa.s.sion first a.s.sail'd her gentle heart, For all his suffering, all his bosom's smart: "And then his prayers! they would a savage move, And win the coldest of the s.e.x to love:" - But ah! too soon his looks success declared, Too late her loss the marriage-rite repair'd; The faithless flatterer then his vows forgot, A captious tyrant or a noisy sot: If present, railing, till he saw her pain'd; If absent, spending what their labours gain'd; Till that fair form in want and sickness pined, And hope and comfort fled that gentle mind.

Then fly temptation, youth; resist, refrain!

Nor let me preach for ever and in vain!

Next came a well-dress'd pair, who left their coach, And made, in long procession, slow approach; For this gay bride had many a female friend, And youths were there, this favour'd youth t'attend: Silent, nor wanting due respect, the crowd Stood humbly round, and gratulation bow'd; But not that silent crowd, in wonder fix'd, Not numerous friends, who praise and envy mix'd, Nor nymphs attending near to swell the pride Of one more fair, the ever-smiling bride; Nor that gay bride, adorn'd with every grace, Nor love nor joy triumphant in her face, Could from the youth's sad signs of sorrow chase: Why didst thou grieve? wealth, pleasure, freedom thine; Vex'd it thy soul, that freedom to resign?

Spake Scandal truth? "Thou didst not then intend So soon to bring thy wooing to an end?"

Or, was it, as our prating rustics say, To end as soon, but in a different way?

'Tis told thy Phillis is a skilful dame, Who play'd uninjured with the dangerous flame; That, while, like Lovelace, thou thy coat display'd, And hid the snare for her affection laid, Thee, with her net, she found the means to catch, And at the amorous see-saw won the match: Yet others tell, the Captain fix'd thy doubt; He'd call thee brother, or he'd call thee out: - But rest the motive--all retreat too late, Joy like thy bride's should on thy brow have sate; The deed had then appear'd thine own intent, A glorious day, by gracious fortune sent, In each revolving year to be in triumph spent.

Then in few weeks that cloudy brow had been Without a wonder or a whisper seen; And none had been so weak as to inquire, "Why pouts my Lady?" or "Why frowns the Squire?"

How fair these names, how much unlike they look To all the blurr'd subscriptions in my book: The bridegroom's letters stand in row above, Tapering yet stout, like pine-trees in his grove; While free and fine the bride's appear below, As light and slender as her jasmines grow.

Mark now in what confusion stoop or stand The crooked scrawls of many a clownish hand; Now out, now in, they droop, they fall, they rise, Like raw recruits drawn forth for exercise; Ere yet reform'd and modelled by the drill, The free-born legs stand striding as they will.

Much have I tried to guide the fist along, But still the blunderers placed their blottings wrong: Behold these marks uncouth! how strange that men Who guide the plough should fail to guide the pen: For half a mile the furrows even lie; For half an inch the letters stand awry; - Our peasants, strong and st.u.r.dy in the field, Cannot these arms of idle students wield: Like them, in feudal days, their valiant lords Resign'd the pen and grasp'd their conqu'ring swords; They to robed clerks and poor dependent men Left the light duties of the peaceful pen; Nor to their ladies wrote, but sought to prove, By deeds of death, their hearts were fill'd with love.

But yet, small arts have charms for female eyes; Our rustic nymphs the beau and scholar prize; Unletter'd swains and ploughmen coa.r.s.e they slight, For those who dress, and amorous scrolls indite.

For Lucy Collins happier days had been, Had Footman Daniel scorn'd his native green, Or when he came an idle c.o.xcomb down, Had he his love reserved for la.s.s in town; To Stephen Hill she then had pledged her truth, - A st.u.r.dy, sober, kind, unpolish'd youth: But from the day, that fatal day she spied The pride of Daniel, Daniel was her pride.

In all concerns was Stephen just and true; But coa.r.s.e his doublet was and patch'd in view, And felt his stockings were, and blacker than his shoe; While Daniel's linen all was fine and fair, - His master wore it, and he deign'd to wear: (To wear his livery, some respect might prove; To wear his linen, must be sign of love:) Blue was his coat, unsoil'd by spot or stain; His hose were silk, his shoes of Spanish grain; A silver knot his breadth of shoulder bore; A diamond buckle blazed his breast before - Diamond he swore it was! and show'd it as he swore; Rings on his fingers shone; his milk-white hand Could pick-tooth case and box for snuff command: And thus, with clouded cane, a fop complete, He stalk'd, the jest and glory of the street, Join'd with these powers, he could so sweetly sing, Talk with such toss, and saunter with such swing; Laugh with such glee, and trifle with such art, That Lucy's promise fail'd to shield her heart.

Stephen, meantime, to ease his amorous cares, Fix'd his full mind upon his farm's affairs; Two pigs, a cow, and wethers half a score, Increased his stock, and still he look'd for more.

He, for his acres few, so duly paid, That yet more acres to his lot were laid: Till our chaste nymphs no longer felt disdain, And prudent matrons praised the frugal swain; Who thriving well, through many a fruitful year, Now clothed himself anew, and acted overseer.

Just then poor Lucy, from her friend in town Fled in pure fear, and came a beggar down; Trembling, at Stephen's door she knocked for bread, - Was chidden first, next pitied, and then fed; Then sat at Stephen's board, then shared in Stephen's bed: All hope of marriage lost in her disgrace, He mourns a flame revived, and she a love of lace.

Now to be wed a well-match'd couple came; Twice had old Lodge been tied, and twice the dame; Tottering they came and toying, (odious scene!) And fond and simple, as they'd always been.

Children from wedlock we by laws restrain; Why not prevent them when they're such again?

Why not forbid the doting souls to prove Th' indecent fondling of preposterous love?

In spite of prudence, uncontroll'd by shame, The amorous senior woos the toothless dame, Relating idly, at the closing eve, The youthful follies he disdains to leave; Till youthful follies wake a transient fire, When arm in arm they totter and retire.

So a fond pair of solemn birds, all day Blink in their seat and doze the hours away; Then by the moon awaken'd, forth they move, And fright the songsters with their cheerless love; So two sear trees, dry, stunted, and unsound, Each other catch, when dropping to the ground: Entwine their withered arms 'gainst wind and weather, And shake their leafless heads and drop together: So two cold limbs, touch'd by Galvani's wire, Move with new life, and feel awaken'd fire; Quivering awhile, their flaccid forms remain, Then turn to cold torpidity again.

"But ever frowns your Hymen? man and maid, Are all repenting, suffering, or betray'd?"

Forbid it, Love! we have our couples here Who hail the day in each revolving year: These are with us, as in the world around; They are not frequent, but they may be found.

Our farmers too, what though they fail to prove, In Hymen's bonds, the tenderest slaves of love, (Nor, like those pairs whom sentiment unites, Feel they the fervour of the mind's delights;) Yet coa.r.s.ely kind and comfortably gay, They heap the board and hail the happy day: And though the bride, now freed from school, admits, Of pride implanted there, some transient fits; Yet soon she casts her girlish flights aside, And in substantial blessings rest her pride.

No more she moves in measured steps; no more Runs, with bewilder'd ear, her music o'er; No more recites her French the hinds among, But chides her maidens in her mother-tongue; Her tambour-frame she leaves and diet spare, Plain work and plenty with her house to share; Till, all her varnish lost in few short years, In all her worth the farmer's wife appears.

Yet not the ancient kind; nor she who gave Her soul to gain--a mistress and a slave: Who, not to sleep allow'd the needful time; To whom repose was loss, and sport a crime; Who, in her meanest room (and all were mean), A noisy drudge, from morn till night was seen; - But she, the daughter, boasts a decent room, Adorned with carpet, formed in Wilton's loom; Fair prints along the paper'd wall are spread; There, Werter sees the sportive children fed, And Charlotte, here, bewails her lover dead.

'Tis here, a.s.sembled, while in s.p.a.ce apart Their husbands, drinking, warm the opening heart, Our neighbouring dames, on festal days, unite, With tongues more fluent and with hearts as light; Theirs is that art, which English wives alone Profess--a boast and privilege their own; An art it is where each at once attends To all, and claims attention from her friends, When they engage the tongue, the eye, the ear, Reply when listening, and when speaking hear: The ready converse knows no dull delays, "But double are the pains, and double be the praise."

Yet not to those alone who bear command Heaven gives a heart to hail the marriage band; Among their servants, we the pairs can show, Who much to love and more to prudence owe: Reuben and Rachel, though as fond as doves, Were yet discreet and cautious in their loves; Nor would attend to Cupid's wild commands, Till cool reflection bade them join their hands: When both were poor, they thought it argued ill Of hasty love to make them poorer still; Year after year, with savings long laid by, They bought the future dwelling's full supply; Her frugal fancy cull'd the smaller ware, The weightier purchase ask'd her Reuben's care; Together then their last year's gain they threw, And lo! an auction'd bed, with curtains neat and new.

Thus both, as prudence counsell'd, wisely stay'd, And cheerful then the calls of Love obeyed: What if, when Rachel gave her hand, 'twas one Embrown'd by Winter's ice and Summer's sun ?

What if, in Reuben's hair the female eye Usurping grey among the black could spy?

What if, in both, life's bloomy flush was lost, And their full autumn felt the mellowing frost?

Yet time, who blow'd the rose of youth away, Had left the vigorous stem without decay; Like those tall elms in Farmer Frankford's ground, They'll grow no more,--but all their growth is sound; By time confirm'd and rooted in the land, The storms they've stood, still promise they shall stand.

These are the happier pairs, their life has rest, Their hopes are strong, their humble portion blest.

While those more rash to hasty marriage led, Lament th' impatience which now stints their bread: When such their union, years their cares increase, Their love grows colder, and their pleasures cease; In health just fed, in sickness just relieved; By hardships hara.s.s'd and by children grieved; In petty quarrels and in peevish strife The once fond couple waste the spring of life; But when to age mature those children grown, Find hopes and homes and hardships of their own, The hara.s.s'd couple feel their lingering woes Receding slowly till they find repose.

Complaints and murmurs then are laid aside, (By reason these subdued, and those by pride;) And, taught by care, the patient man and wife Agree to share the bitter-sweet of life; (Life that has sorrow much and sorrow's cure, Where they who most enjoy shall much endure:) Their rest, their labours, duties, sufferings, prayers, Compose the soul, and fit it for its cares; Their graves before them and their griefs behind, Have each a med'cine for the rustic mind; Nor has he care to whom his wealth shall go, Or who shall labour with his spade and hoe; But as he lends the strength that yet remains, And some dead neighbour on his bier sustains, (One with whom oft he whirl'd the bounding flail, Toss'd the broad coit, or took the inspiring ale,) "For me," (he meditates,) "shall soon be done This friendly duty, when my race be run; 'Twas first in trouble as in error pa.s.s'd, Dark clouds and stormy cares whole years o'ercast, But calm my setting day, and sunshine smiles at last: My vices punish'd and my follies spent, Not loth to die, but yet to-live content, I rest:"--then casting on the grave his eye, His friend compels a tear, and his own griefs a sigh.

Last on my list appears a match of love, And one of virtue;--happy may it prove! - Sir Edward Archer is an amorous knight, And maidens chaste and lovely shun his sight; His bailiff's daughter suited much his taste, For f.a.n.n.y Price was lovely and was chaste; To her the Knight with gentle looks drew near, And timid voice a.s.sumed to banish fear: - "Hope of my life, dear sovereign of my breast, Which, since I knew thee, knows not joy nor rest; Know, thou art all that my delighted eyes, My fondest thoughts, my proudest wishes prize; And is that bosom--(what on earth so fair!) To cradle some coa.r.s.e peasant's sprawling heir, To be that pillow which some surly swain May treat with scorn and agonise with pain?

Art thou, sweet maid, a ploughman's wants to share, To dread his insult, to support his care; To hear his follies, his contempt to prove, And (oh! the torment!) to endure his love; Till want and deep regret those charms destroy, That time would spare, if time were pa.s.s'd in joy?

With him, in varied pains, from morn till night, Your hours shall pa.s.s; yourself a ruffian's right; Your softest bed shall be the knotted wool; Your purest drink the waters of the pool; Your sweetest food will but your life sustain, And your best pleasure be a rest from pain; While, through each year, as health and strength abate, You'll weep your woes and wonder at your fate; And cry, 'Behold,' as life's last cares come on, 'My burthens growing when my strength is gone.'

"Now turn with me, and all the young desire, That taste can form, that fancy can require; All that excites enjoyment, or procures Wealth, health, respect, delight, and love, are yours: Sparkling, in cups of gold, your wines shall flow, Grace that fair hand, in that dear bosom glow; Fruits of each clime, and flowers, through all the year Shall on your walls and in your walks appear: Where all beholding, shall your praise repeat, No fruit so tempting and no flower so sweet: The softest carpets in your rooms shall lie, Pictures of happiest love shall meet your eye, And tallest mirrors, reaching to the floor, Shall show you all the object I adore; Who, by the hands of wealth and fashion dress'd, By slaves attended and by friends caress'd, Shall move, a wonder, through the public ways, And hear the whispers of adoring praise.

Your female friends, though gayest of the gay, Shall see you happy, and shall, sighing, say, While smother'd envy rises in the breast, - 'Oh! that we lived so beauteous and so blest!'

"Come, then, my mistress, and my wife; for she Who trusts my honour is the wife for me; Your slave, your husband, and your friend employ In search of pleasures we may both enjoy."

To this the Damsel, meekly firm, replied: "My mother loved, was married, toil'd, and died; With joys she'd griefs, had troubles in her course, But not one grief was pointed by remorse: My mind is fix'd, to Heaven I resign, And be her love, her life, her comforts mine."

Tyrants have wept; and those with hearts of steel, Unused the anguish of the heart to heal, Have yet the transient power of virtue known, And felt th' imparted joy promote their own.

Our Knight relenting, now befriends a youth, Who to the yielding maid had vow'd his truth; And finds in that fair deed a sacred joy, That will not perish, and that cannot cloy; - A living joy, that shall its spirits keep, When every beauty fades, and all the pa.s.sions sleep.

PART III.

Qui vultus Acherontis atri, Qui Stygia tristem, non tristis, videt, . . . . . . . . . . . .

Par ille Regi, par Superis erit.

SENECA, Agamemnon.

BURIALS.

True Christian Resignation not frequently to be seen--The Register a melancholy Record--A dying Man, who at length sends for a Priest: for what Purpose? answered--Old Collet of the Inn, an Instance of Dr Young's slow-sudden Death: his Character and Conduct--The Manners and Management of the Widow Goe: her successful Attention to Business: her Decease unexpected--the Infant Boy of Gerard Ablett dies: Reflections on his Death, and the Survivor his Sister-Twin-- The Funeral of the deceased Lady of the Manor described: her neglected Mansion: Undertaker and Train: the Character which her Monument will hereafter display--Burial of an Ancient Maiden: some former drawback on her Virgin Fame: Description of her House and Household: her Manners, Apprehensions, Death--Isaac Ashford, a virtuous Peasant, dies, his manly Character: Reluctance to enter the Poor-House; and why--Misfortune and Derangement of Intellect in Robin Dingley: whence they proceeded: he is not restrained by Misery from a wandering Life: his various returns to his Parish: his final Return--Wife of Farmer Frankford dies in Prime of Life: Affliction in Consequence of such Death: melancholy View of Her House &c. on her Family's Return from her Funeral: Address to Sorrow--Leah Cousins, a Midwife: her Character, and successful Practice: at length opposed by Dr. Glibb: Opposition in the Parish: Argument of the Doctor; of Leah: her Failure and Decease--Burial of Roger Cuff, a Sailor: his Enmity to his Family; how it originated: his Experiment and its Consequence--The Register terminates--A Bell heard: Inquiry for whom?--The s.e.xton--Character of old Dibble, and the five Rectors whom he served--Reflections--Conclusion.

THERE was, 'tis said, and I believe, a time When humble Christians died with views sublime; When all were ready for their faith to bleed, But few to write or wrangle for their creed; When lively Faith upheld the sinking heart, And friends, a.s.sured to meet, prepared to part; When Love felt hope, when Sorrow grew serene, And all was comfort in the death-bed scene.

Alas! when now the gloomy king they wait, 'Tis weakness yielding to resistless fate; Like wretched men upon the ocean cast, They labour hard and struggle to the last; "Hope against hope," and wildly gaze around In search of help that never shall be found: Nor, till the last strong billow stops the breath, Will they believe them in the jaws of Death!

When these my Records I reflecting read, And find what ills these numerous births succeed; What powerful griefs these nuptial ties attend; With what regret these painful journeys end; When from the cradle to the grave I look, Mine I conceive a melancholy book.

Where now is perfect resignation seen?

Alas! it is not on the village-green: - I've seldom known, though I have often read, Of happy peasants on their dying-bed; Whose looks proclaimed that sunshine of the breast, That more than hope, that Heaven itself express'd.

What I behold are feverish fits of strife, 'Twixt fears of dying and desire of life: Those earthly hopes, that to the last endure; Those fears, that hopes superior fail to cure; At best a sad submission to the doom, Which, turning from the danger, lets it come.

Sick lies the man, bewilder'd, lost, afraid, His spirits vanquish'd, and his strength decay'd; No hope the friend, the nurse, the doctor lend - "Call then a priest, and fit him for his end."

A priest is call'd; 'tis now, alas! too late, Death enters with him at the cottage-gate; Or time allow'd--he goes, a.s.sured to find The self-commending, all-confiding mind; And sighs to hear, what we may justly call Death's common-place, the train of thought in all.

"True I'm a sinner," feebly he begins, "But trust in Mercy to forgive my sins:"

(Such cool confession no past crimes excite!

Such claim on Mercy seems the sinner's right!) "I know mankind are frail, that G.o.d is just, And pardons those who in his Mercy trust; We're sorely tempted in a world like this - All men have done, and I like all, amiss; But now, if spared, it is my full intent On all the past to ponder and repent: Wrongs against me I pardon great and small, And if I die, I die in peace with all."

His merits thus and not his sins confess'd, He speaks his hopes, and leaves to Heaven the rest.

Alas! are these the prospects, dull and cold, That dying Christians to their priests unfold?