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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 resigned?"
'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 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 appeared; 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.
Next to these Ladies, but in nought allied,
A noble Peasant, Isaac Ashford, died.
Noble he was, contemning all things mean,
His truth unquestioned, and his Soul serene:
