'Ah! well I knew him from his mother's arms, No youth so fair, so innocent, as he; His spring of life was deck'd with spring's best charms, His opening mind was like the blossom'd tree. 'His riper years with riper fruits were crown'd, His mellow autumn blest with genial skies; His age, like winter's frost-ymantled ground, Where vigour still beneath the hoary surface lies. 'For wealth or pow'r he breath'd no prayer to heav'n, Life's every blessing industry supplied; To him health, peace, and competence, were giv'n, And say, can virtue form a wish beside? 'This once-lov'd spot recalls full many a joy, What cheer'd in youth old age will ne'er forget; But still must doat on memory's fond employ, And what it lov'd the most, the most regret. 'The spreading elm that shadows o'er the yard, Its parted master to my view can call; And every object claims a soft regard, Since GRATIO's memory sanctifies them all. 'The shady bower in yonder elmy meads, The vocal thicket where the throstle sung, The little gate that through the garden leads, The fork now useless where the milk-pail hung. 'But GRATIO's dead, and desert is the scene, GRATIO's no more, and every charm's decay'd; Those joys are fled which gladden'd once the green; But still fond fancy courts the fleeting shade, 'Still dwells tenacious on those happier hours, When this lov'd spot with social joys was crown'd; When health, content, and innocence were ours, And pour'd the song of happiness around. 'Then the glad houshold his return would greet, And winning welcome smil'd with accents bland; The faithful house-dog gambol'd round his feet, To court attention from his master's hand. 'To clasp his knees the prattling infants ran, Proud from their sire to catch the earliest kiss; Oh! I have seen the parent bless the man, When only tears could speak his secret bliss. 'But now he's dead, the thought demands a tear, I saw the good man yield his latest breath; He fell full ripen'd as the autumnal ear, Swept by the sickle of relentless death.' "Shepherd," said he, "my day of life is flown;" 'Methinks ev'n now the faultering sound I hear:' "Lay my cold corse beneath some humble stone, And let no useless pomp attend my bier." 'We try'd each healing art, but could not save; We bore his bier, the last sad debt to pay; No plumy hearse bore GRATIO to the grave, No pompous pile was rear'd around his clay. 'All the sad village followed in the train, We laid his bones beneath yon yew-tree's shade; Our village curate grav'd the elegiac strain, And lo! the stone, the spot in which he's laid.' * * * * * EPITAPH.