127

188
The within specimen of poetry found among some of the
writers papers, has been drawn off as dated & subscribed,
for the inspection of one who remarked, (truly too,) that
writing in that style was not now much practised; but this
shows, weak as the performance may appear to a penetrating
judgement, that a favourite exercise of mind has not been
totaly relinquished.
The inclosed speaks for itself, as an epitomised sketch
of the biography of the author. Let them both be accepted
for what they arc worth, yet not considered as any part of
remuneration for kind attentions unremittingly manifested
towards an unworthy but grateful Individual:

The Last.
And now I'm left alone, alone
Upon this dreary earth;
The last of those, who, in my youth,
Met round our native hearth, -
The thought, on memory's rapid wing,
Flies backward to those years,
How near, how distant, yet how bright
That kindred group appears!
1 see e'en now, the spot where stood
My father's oaken chair,
His aged venerable form,
His smooth and silvery hair;-
His well worn Bible -- and I hear
His deep impressive tone,
While asking blessings on our heads
He sought his father's throne.
My mother, too, how plain I see
Her seat beside the door,
I see her sweet contented smile, —
The very cap she wore.