TO THE NUNS OF BODNEY.

Ye holy women, say! will ye accept The passing tribute of a humble friend? Stranger indeed to you and to your faith, But O! I hope not stranger to the zeal, Which warm'd your bosoms in Religion's cause. When impious men commanded you to break The vow which bound your souls, and which in youth Warm Piety's emphatic lips had made. Say! will ye suffer me on that rude tomb, Where she reposes (whose benignant smile, Whose animated, life-inspiring eye, And faded form, majestic, still appears In Thought's delusive hour) to shed a tear? On her, whose sainted look, though seen but once, I never can forget, till Time shall wrap The veil of Death around me, and make dumb The voice of Memory. Ah! "how low she lies!" No marble monument to speak her praise, And tell the world that here a DILLON rests. One, who in beauty's prime forsook the world, And, self-bereav'd of all it holds most dear, Retir'd, to pass the pilgrimage of life, In solemn prayer and peaceful solitude. Ah, vain desire! Ambition's scowling eye Must see the cloister, as the palace, low, And meek-ey'd Quiet quit her last abode, Ere he can pause to look upon the wreck, And rue the wild impatience of his hand. Hail! blessed spirit! This rude cypher'd stone. On which a sister's pensive eye shall muse In sorrow, and another relative In sweet, though mournful, recollection, bend, Shall call a tear into the stranger's eye Whene'er he hears the tale, yet make him proud That Britain's hospitable land should yield All that you could accept, an humble grave.

Written in London, on the 19th of March, 1796.

A lov'd companion, chosen friend, Does at this hour depart, Whom the dear name of father binds Still closer to my heart. On him may joy-dispensing heav'n Each calm delight bestow, And eas'd of peace-destroying care His life serenely flow! Did I but know his bosom calm, And free from anxious fear, Around me in more cheerful hues Would every scene appear. And I will hope that he, who ne'er Repin'd at heav'n's decree, But ever patient and resign'd, Submissive bent the knee: Who, best of fathers, never sought For arbitrary sway, But free within each youthful mind, Bade Reason lead the way. Who taught us, 'stead of servile fear, A warm esteem to prove, And bade each act of duty spring, From gratitude and love. Yes, I must hope that generous mind With many cares opprest, Shall in the winter of his days With sweet repose be blest.

A friend, a year or two ago, gave me Joseph's Reconciliation with his Brethren, as a subject to write upon; but I was afraid of not treating it in such a manner as a sacred story deserved, and gave up the attempt, when I had written little more than the following lines, to account for their not knowing him, although he well remembered them; and am persuaded to let them appear here.