TO THE MEMORY OF

MISS SUSAN MACDONALD,

Who died at LISBON, where she went for the recovery of her health, March 1803, in the 22nd year of her age. She was the eldest daughter of the RIGHT HONOURABLE SIR ARCHIBALD MACDONALD, LORD CHIEF BARon of Eng

LAND.

LED, by paternal Love's protecting hand,
Where golden Tagus laves the Lusian strand,
In search of balmy health, we saw thee part,
While Hope spoke comfort to the doubting heart.
Vain were, alas! the promises she gave!
The blossom fell, and dropp'd into the grave!
Those airy forms* which erst thy hand portray'd,
Recal to Fancy's eye thy parted shade:
Taste shall thy early talents learn to mourn,
While sacred friendship marks thy distant urn.

ON MR. RAMSDEN, OF HALIFAX.

AFFLICTION's daughters saw this flower decay,
And mourn'd the loss of fragrance, change of hue;
'Twas strange! in spite of care it pin'd away,
No art its head could rear, its bloom renew.

Affliction's daughters know, this flower decay'd, And met no loss from death; beneath our skies Not half its hues or fragrance were display'd; 11 By death it gain'd the bloom of Paradise.

Alluding to some very elegant drawings found in her port-folio.

ON AN USURER.

HERE lyes ten in the hundred,
In the ground fast ramm'd:
'Tis a hundred to ten

But his soule will be damn'd.

ANOTHER.

HERE lyes he, underneath this stone,
That, whilst he lived, did good to none.
And therefore at the point to dye
More cause had some to laugh than cry.
His eldest sonne thought he had wrong,
Because he lingered out so long.

But now he's dead, how ere he fares

There's no one knows, nor none that cares..

LOOKE man before thee how thy death hasteth, Looke man behind thee, how thy life wasteth; Looke on thy right side, how death thee desireth, Looke on thy left side, how sinne thee beguileth, Looke man above thee, joyes that ever shall last, Looke man beneath thee, the pains without rest.

HERE lyeth Menalcas, as dead as a logge,
Who lived like a devill, and died like a dogge;
Here doth he lye said I? then say I lye,
For from this place he parted by-and-bye.
But here he made his descent into hell,
Without either booke, candle, or beH.

Intended to be placed on a Stone in the Church of
Bromham, Wills.

'Tis not the tomb in marble polish'd high,
The venal verse, or flattering titles nigh,
The classic learning, on an impious stone,
Where Latin tells what English blush'd to own,
Shall shroud the guilty from the sight of God,
Incline his balance, or avert his rod;

His hand can raise the crippled and the poor,
Spread on the way, or fainting at the door;
And blast the villain, tho' to altars fled,
Who robb'd us living, and insults us dead.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Who died at Richmond, the 24th Day of March, 1602, in the 70th Year of her Age, and 45th of her Reign.

THE Queene was brought by water to White-Hall, At every stroake the oares tears let fall:

More clung about the barge: fish, under water, Wept out their eyes of pearle, and swome blind after. I thinke the bargemen might, with easier thighes, Have rowed her thither in her people's eyes.

For how so ere, thus much my thoughts have scan'd, She'd come by water, had she come by land.

ANOTHER.

SPAINE'S rod, ROME's ruine, NETHERLAND's relief, EARTH'S joy, ENGLAND'S gemme, WORLD's wonder, NATURE'S chiefe.

ANOTHER.

WEEPE greatest isle, and for thy mistresse death
Swim in a double sea of brakish water;
Weepe, little world, for great ELIZABETH,
Daughter of warre; for MARS himself begot her ;
Mother of peace; for she brought forth the later.
She was, and is, what can there more be said,
On earth the chief, in Heaven the second maide.

ANOTHER.

KINGS, queenes, mens judgments, eyes,
See where your mirrour lyes:

In whome her friends hath seene

A King's state in a queene:
In whom her foes survey'd
A man's heart in a maid;
Whom least men for her piety
Should judge to have beene a diety.
Heaven since, by death, did summon,
To shew she was a woman.

ON A GREAT EATER.

A GLUTTON renown'd

Lies under this ground,
Who for ever to eating was prone,

Before his last breath

He'd ee'n have eat death;

But there he found nothing but bone.

ON PRINCE HENRY,
Son of James I.

READER, wonder thinke it none,
Though I speake, and am a stone.
Here is shrinde coelestiall dust,
And i keepe it but in trust.
Should I not my treasure tell,
Wonder then you might as well,
How this stone could choose but breake,
If it had not learnt to speake.
Hence amaz'd, and aske not me,
Whose these sacred ashes be.
Purposely it is concealed,
For if that should be revealed,
All that reade would by and by
Melt themselves to teares and dy.
Within this marble casket lies.
A matchlesse jewel of rich prize,
Whom nature in the world's disdain
But shewed, and then put up again.

ON THE SAME.

By Giles Fletcher.

Ir wise, amaz'd! depart this holy grave,
Nor these new ashes ask what names they have;
The graver in concealing them was wise,
For, whoso knows, straight melts in tears, and dies.

IBID.

I have no vein in verse, but if I could

Distil on every word a pearl, I would.!

Our sorrows pearl drops, not from pens, but eyes, Whilst other Muses write, mine only cryes.