Her neat small Room, adorn’d with Maiden-taste, A clipt French-Puppey first of Favourites grac’d. A Parrot next, but dead and stuff’d with Art; (For Poll, when living, lost the Lady’s Heart, And then his Life; for he was heard to speak Such frightful Words as tinge’d his Lady’s Cheek;) Unhappy Bird! who had no power to prove, Save by such Speech, his Gratitude and Love. A grey old Cat his Whiskers lick’d beside; A type of Sadness in the House of Pride. The polish’d Surface of an India-Chest, A glassy Globe, in Frame of Ivory, prest; Where swam two finny Creatures; one of Gold, Of Silver one; both beauteous to behold: All these were form’d the guiding Taste to suit; The Beasts well-manner’d and the Fishes mute. A widow’d _Aunt_ was there, compell’d by Need, The Nymph to flatter and her Tribe to feed; Who, veiling well her Scorn, endur’d the Clog, Mute as the Fish and fawning as the Dog. As Years increas’d, these Treasures her Delight, Arose in Value in their Owner’s sight:-- A Miser knows that, view it as he will, A Guinea kept is but a Guinea still: And so he puts it to its proper Use, That something more this Guinea may produce: But Silks and Rings in the Possessor’s Eyes, The oft’ner seen, the more in Value rise, And thus are wisely hoarded to bestow, On Pride that governs, Pleasure that will grow. But what avail’d their Worth,--if Worth had they,-- In the sad Summer of her slow Decay? Then we beheld her turn an anxious Look From Trunks and Chests, and fix it on her Book; A rich-bound Book of Prayer the Captain gave, (Some Princess had it, or was said to have,) And then once more on all her Stores, look round And draw a sigh so piteous and profound, That told, “Alas! how hard from these to part, “And for new Hopes and Habits form the Heart! “What shall I do (she cried) my Peace of Mind, “To gain in dying and to die resign’d?” ‘Hear,’ we return’d;--‘these Bawbles cast aside, ‘Nor give thy GOD a Rival in thy Pride; ‘Thy Closets shut and ope thy Kitchen’s Door; ‘_There_ own thy Failings, _here_ invite the Poor; ‘A friend of _Mammon_ let thy Bounty make, } ‘For Widow’s Prayers, thy Vanities forsake;} ‘And let the Hungry of thy Pride, partake: } ‘Then shall thy inward Eye with joy survey, ‘The Angel _Mercy_ tempering _Death_’s Delay!’ Alas! ’twas hard; the Treasures still had Charms, Hope still its Flattery, Sickness its Alarms; Still was the same unsettled, clouded View, And the same plaintive Cry, “What shall I do?” Nor Change appear’d: for, when her Race was run Doubtful we all exclaim’d, “What has been done?” Apart she liv’d and still she lies alone; Yon earthly Heap awaits the flattering Stone, On which Invention shall be long employ’d To shew the various Worth of _Catharine Lloyd_.