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 widows' 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 lived, and still she lies alone; Yon earthy heap awaits the flattering stone On which invention shall be long employ'd, To show the various worth of Catherine Lloyd. Next to these ladies, but in nought allied, A noble Peasant, Isaac Ashford, died. Noble he was, contemning all things mean, His truth unquestion'd and his soul serene: Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid; At no man's question Isaac looked dismay'd: Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace; Truth, simple truth, was written in his face: Yet while the serious thought his soul approved, Cheerful he seem'd, and gentleness he loved; To bliss domestic he his heart resign'd, And with the firmest had the fondest mind; Were others joyful, he look'd smiling on, And gave allowance where he needed none; Good he refused with future ill to buy, Nor knew a joy that caused reflection's sigh; A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast No envy stung, no jealousy distress'd; (Bane of the poor! it wounds their weaker mind, To miss one favour, which their neighbours find:) Yet far was he from stoic pride removed; He felt humanely, and he warmly loved: I mark'd his action, when his infant died, And his old neighbour for offence was tried; The still tears, stealing down that furrow'd cheek, Spoke pity, plainer than the tongue can speak. If pride were his, 'twas not their vulgar pride, Who, in their base contempt, the great deride; Nor pride in learning,--though my Clerk agreed, If fate should call him, Ashford might succeed; Nor pride in rustic skill, although we knew None his superior, and his equals few:- But if that spirit in his soul had place, It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace; A pride in honest fame, by virtue gain'd, In sturdy boys to virtuous labours train'd; Pride in the power that guards his country's coast, And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast; Pride in a life that slander's tongue defied, - In fact a noble passion, misnamed Pride. He had no party's rage, no sect'ry's whim; Christian and countrymen was all with him: True to his church he came; no Sunday-shower Kept him at home in that important hour; Nor his firm feet could one persuading sect, By the strong glare of their new light direct:- "On hope, in mine own sober light, I gaze, But should be blind, and lose it, in your blaze." In times severe, when many a sturdy swain Felt it his pride, his comfort to complain;