“ Through your souls the rapture and freshness diffuse,
Which erst, in life’s morning, they shed over mine—
O, your hearts would confess, it is all but divine.
******
I know it—the grave which to me you assign,
Is black in the shade of your dreary church-wall,
Where nettle and hemlock their rankness combine,
And the worm and the sullen toad loathsomely crawl.
O! where is the primrose, so meet for adorning
The grave of a minstrel cut off in his bloom?
O! where is the daisy, to shed in the morning
The tear it has gather’d by night, for my doom? ”

“ The Lady’s Magazine has, with that tenderness peculiar to its sex, adopted one of our children as its own, not from any supposed cruelty or neglect on our part we are sure,—nor from any extraordinary liberality on her’s,—but, as we conjecture, from that extravagance which often springs up in those who are themselves destitute of offspring. ”

“ And lastly—but dearer than anguish can tell—
Where, where are the friends that have loved me so well?
*******
See! one aged mourner comes, trembling, to place
A weak, wither’d hand on the grave of her son—
See! ”