said my mother fell a prey to grief,
And that no medicine could give relief;
In stating this a tear escaped her eye.
Return she cried, then heaved a tender sigh:
I will return and ere her spirits fled,
Press my lov'd mother on her couch or bed.
For pity's sake write me a line to say,
If I to you may speedy bend my way;
This boon is all I ask and now I crave,
A parent's blessing ere I meet the grave.

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To the Memory of
MR. PAGE,
LATE OF
_PULHAM MARKET_.

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My pen but faintly can declare,
The virtues of his mind;
Well he deserves the friendly tear,
From those he leaves behind.

Dissimulation could not rest
A moment on his face,
No wicked thoughts annoy'd his breast,
Nor envy found a place.

To friends and neighbours was sincere,
He cheerful pass'd the day;
His memory many will revere,
Till they are call'd away.

Enough I cannot say of him,
The reason's very plain;
But few were so devoid of sin,
No better here remain.

Quite well he knew the ways of life,
Performed one noble plan,
Avoiding things that brought or strife,
And justice did to man.

His conversation sweetly pure,
For prudence led the way;
None but those he could endure,
Who would her strains obey.

Once on a time by ills oppress'd,
I asked his friendly aid;
He lull'd my anxious mind to rest,
And sorrow quick dismayed.

At Pulham market, left behind,
Those friends he did revere;
To every stranger they are kind
To friendship are sincere.

No party spirit there can dwell,
A day within that place;
They bid her give a long farewell,
Nor dare to show her face.

The humble tradesman can retire,
If pleasure leads his mind;
Beside the wealthy farmer's fire,
And gain attention kind.

The labouring poor will seldom part,
From those that him employ;
Good usage animates the heart,
And bitter thoughts destroy.

In the gay village all around,
A little cot you'll find,
Behind it is the garden ground,
To please the tenants' mind.

Seldom is rais'd the tasker's cot,
Not often turn'd away;
No murmuring on his master's spot,
He cheerful him obey.

The farmer's wife the poor