That precious blessing was for thee in store,

For which the young and virtuous well might pray ; For Heav'n's indulgence cannot grant us more, Than mind not sympathising with decay.

Yet still I deem it much in human pow'r,
To lessen dotage, or, perhaps, prevent:
For those whom age or their diseases sour,
Are wretched while they utter discontent. 5

But while they blame whate'er the young approve,
Or envy pleasures which they cannot taste,
And seem unwilling to conciliate love,

The mental remnant quickly runs to waste.

'Tis among those, that weaken'd pow'rs are found, Whom want of feeling makes morose and cold; Who grieve the more when all is smiling round, Talk of the past, and murmur they are old.

Hence dotage comes but seldom on the good,
Who look complacent to their closing scene,
Whose wayward passions only are subdu'd,

And mind is render'd but the more serene.

'Tis thus that long before the hour of rest,
There are who feel a heavy slumber creep;
While some at ease, nor with fatigue opprest,
Retain their senses till they fall asleep.

As temp'rance only, in our youthful days,
Can hold the body to its utmost length:
So, where no fierce nor evil passion sways,
The aged mind retains its pristine strength.

'Tis peace within.-The harp is nicely strung,
And not the least discordance in the strain ;
Hence it will last the longer, and prolong
Its melting cadence o'er and o'er again.

'Tis war within.-Change, change the jarring strings,
And fret, 'tis still but a harsh grating sound;
His skill is useless, the musician flings
Dashing the lyre, and breaks it on the ground.

And, Lady, thus thy gentle mind was stor'd
With mild affections, which would make it last;
No fretful passions strain'd its slender cord,
Dreaded the future, or bewail'd the past.

Thy mind retain'd the vigour of its prime,

Nor was it tainted by the frame diseas'd, Which sunk beneath the gath'ring hand of time; But rather by the mind that frame was eas'd.

Thus Plato wrote, and reason'd at fourscore,
And Cato study'd still his country's good;
Thus Newton's love of science was not o'er,
And Mason's numbers glow'd with gratitude.

Blest with these gifts from nature, and improv'd
By ev'ry winning art that can engage,
Thou hadst that fascination that was lov'd
Thro' ev'ry period of life's varying stage.

Hence they, whom talents and whom worth have rais'd,
To shine among the worthies of our land,

Sought to know one, whose merit justly prais'd,
Gain'd an ascendant they could not withstand.

Thus by thy modest sense and sweeten'd smile,
Johnson was conquer'd, and became less stern; 7
And Hunter, weary of his surgic toil,

Found in thy converse he had much to learn.

Thine too to listen to the nautic Clerke,

In years thy equal, how cold oceans roll Their billows huge, which Cook's advent'rous bark Stemm'd, as he dar'd approach the Southern Pole,

When Grenville came, exhausted with debate,
That at Boconnoc he might be alone,
He would forget the low intrigues of state,
To hail a mind as vig'rous as his own.

Of lively manners, and thro' Courts refin'd,
Whence men are won, are moulded, and are led,

The noble Basset, open, lib'ral, kind,

Esteem'd thee living, and laments thee dead.

Exalted friendships, such as these, attest,

That She, who had acquir'd them, must have been Born to excel, and with that something blest, That suits each period of life's shifting scene.

Thy cheerful temper and thy ready wit,

Were still the virtues that could most attract, When all admir'd how in convenience fit,

One could so sprightly talk, so gravely act.

For thou couldst blend extremes with secret art, The sad, the gay, the serious, and the smile, And act so nicely that distinguish'd part,

Which was consistent still, tho' versatile.

Ev'n I and others too have lov'd to mark
That talent, mixing with a heart so kind,
As struck with wonder, like th' electric spark,
At such a rare aud highly gifted mind.

Sprightly and ever cheerful, it allow'd
Nor age, nor sickness, to disturb its calm;
Mild to the last, nor darken'd by a cloud
Of fretful weakness, it still bore the palm.

Thy pleasing voice imparted more delight

Than that of shepherds from mellifluous pipe, When clos'd their labours with the failing light, Fair Autumn tells them that her fruit is ripe.

Thy gen'rous temper was that ripen'd fruit,
That still improv'd as nearest to decay,
And made thee worthy of the fond pursuit,
And admiration of the young and gay.