of the clothes, found the rain was dropping through the ceiling upon the bed he got up, and moved the bed; but he had not lain long before he found the same inconvenience. Again he got up, and again the rain came down. At length, after pushing the bed quite round the room, he got into a corner where the ceiling was better secured, and he slept till morning. When he met his uncle at breakfast, he told him what had happened—“Aye! aye!” said the old man, “I don't mind it myself; but to those who do, that's a nice corner in the rain!"
For further particulars of this extraordinary man see his life by Edward Topham, Esq.
ON LADY E. MANSELL,
Niece to the Mother of Sir Hervey Elwes.
Vive pius, moriere pius! cole sacra! colentem
Mors gravis e templis in cava busta trahat!
Though the whole life should pass without a stain,
With piety, alike in health or pain,
To Heav'n resign'd still death shall be thy doom,
And snatch thee from the altar to the tomb.
Beneath the covering of this little stone,
Lie the poor shrunk, yet dear, remains of One,
With merit humble, and with virtue fair,
With knowledge modest, and with wit sincere ;
Upright in all the social calls of life,
The friend, the daughter, sister, and the wife!
So just the disposition of her soul,
Nature left reason nothing to control:
Firm, pious, patient, affable of mind,
Happy in life, and yet in death resign'd!
Just in the zenith of those golden days,
When the mind ripens ere the form decays,
The hand of fate for ever cut her thread,
And left the world to weep that virtue filed,
Its pride when living, and its grief when dead!
Come, honest sexton, take thy spade,
And let my grave be quickly made :
Thou still art ready for the dead,
Like a kind host, to make my bed.
I now am come to be thy guest,
Let me in some dark lodging rest,
For I am weary, full of pain,
And of my pilgrimage complain.
On heaven's decree I waiting lie,
And all my wishes are to die.
Hark, I hear my passing-bell,
Farewell, my loving friends, farewell!
Make my cold bed, good sexton; deep,
That my poor bones may safely sleep;
Until that sad and joyful day,
When from above a voice shall say,
"Wake, all ye dead, lift up your eyes,
"The great creator bids you rise."
Then do I hope, among the just,
To shake off this polluted dust;
And, with new robes of glory drest,
To have access among the blest.
Hark, I hear my passing-bell,
Farewell, my loving friends, farewell!
J. Raw, Printer, Ipswich.
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