Here lies interred in the eternity of the past, from whence there is no resurrection for the days - whatever there may be for the dust - the thirty-third year of an ill-spent life, which, after a lingering disease of many months sank into a lethargy, and expired, January 22d, 1821, A.D. leaving a successor inconsolable for the very loss which occasioned its existence.

Parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues With a new colour as it gasps away, The last still loveliest, till-'t is gone, and all is gray.

Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes sin's a pleasure.

Farewell! if ever fondest prayer For other's weal avail'd on high, Mine will not all be lost in air, But waft thy name beyond the sky.

Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon.

No ear can hear nor tongue can tell the tortures of the inward hell!

One certainly has a soul; but how it came to allow itself to be enclosed in a body is more than I can imagine.