Here will she come and on the Grave will sit,
Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit;

But if Observer pass, will take her round,
And careless seem, for she would not be found;

Then

go again, and thus her hour employ, While Visions please her, and while Woes destroy.

Forbear, sweet Maid! nor be by Fancy led,
To hold mysterious converse with the Dead;
For sure at length thy thoughts, thy spirits pain,
In this sad conflict will disturb thy brain;
All have their tasks and trials: thine are hard,
But short the time and glorious the reward;
Thy patient spirit to thy duties give,
Regard the Dead, but to the Living, live. *

* It has been observed to me, that in the first part of the story I have represented this young woman as resigned and attentive to her duties; from which it should appear that the concluding advice is unnecessary: but if the reader will construe the expression to the living live,' into the sense-live entirely for them, attend to duties only which are real, and not those imposed by the imagination; I shall have no need to alter the line which terminates the story.

VICAR.

The lately departed Minister of the Borough:-His soothing and supplicatory Manners.-His cool and timid Affections.-No Praise due to such negative Virtue.-Address to Characters of this kind. The Vicar's Employments.-His Talents and moderate Ambition.-His Dislike of Innovation.-His mild but ineffectual Benevolence.-A Summary of his Character.

CURATE.

Mode of paying the Borough-Minister.-The Curate has no such Resources. His Learning and Poverty.-Erroneous Idea of his Parent. His Feelings as an Husband and Father.-—The dutiful Regard of his numerous Family.-His Pleasure as a Writer, how interrupted.-No Resource in the Press.-Vulgar Insult.— His Account of a Literary Society, and a Fund for the Relief of indigent Authors, &c.

LETTER III.

THE VICAR.

WHERE ends our Chancel in a vaulted space,
Sleep the departed Vicars of the place;
Of most, all mention, memory, thought are past,
But take a slight memorial of the last.

To what fam'd College we our Vicar owe, To what fair County, let Historians show: Few now remember when the mild young Man, Ruddy and fair, his Sunday-Task began; Few live to speak of that soft soothing look He cast around, as he prepar'd his Book; It was a kind of supplicating smile, But nothing hopeless of applause, the while; And when he finish'd, his corrected pride Felt the desert, and yet the praise denied. Thus he his race began, and to the end His constant care was no man to offend: No haughty virtues stirr'd his peaceful mind, Nor urg'd the Priest to leave the Flock behind; He was his Master's Soldier, but not one, To lead an army of his Martyrs on;