The love where Death has set his seal,

Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,

Nor falsehood disavow:

And, what were worse, thou canst not see
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.

4.

The better days of life were ours;

The worst can be but mine:

The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers
Shall never more be thine.

The silence of that dreamless sleep

I envy now too much to weep;

Nor need I to repine

That all those charms have pass'd away:

I might have watch'd through long decay.

5.

The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd
Must fall the earliest prey,
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,
The leaves must drop away:

And yet it were a greater grief
To watch it withering, leaf by leaf,
Than see it pluck'd to-day;

Since earthly eye but ill can bear
To trace' the change to foul from fair.

6.

I know not if I could have borne

To see thy beauties fade;

The night that foliow'd such a morn
Had worn a deeper shade:

Thy day without a cloud hath past,
And thou wert lovely to the last;
Extinguish'd, not decay'd;

As stars that shoot along the sky
Shine brightest as they fall from high.

VOL. III.

7.

As once I wept, if I could weep,
My tears might well be shed,
To think I was not near to keep
One vigil o'er thy bed,

To gaze-how fondly! on thy face,
To fold thee in a faint embrace,

Uphold thy drooping head;

And show that love, however vain,
Nor thou nor I can feel again.

8.

Yet how much less it were to gain,
Though thou hast left me free,
The loveliest things that still remain,
Than thus remember thee!

The all of thine that cannot die

Through dark and dread Eternity
Returns again to me,

And more thy buried love endears

Than aught, except its living years.

OBITUARY.

DIED, at Philadelphia, on the twenty-eighth of January, 1814, in the fifty-third year of her age, Mrs. MARGARET M. CRAIG, widow of the late John Craig, esquire.

In recording the death of this accomplished and admirable woman, we know not how to reconcile the expression of our sensibility for her loss, and the enthusiastic veneration which her virtues had inspired, with the sobriety of ordinary eulogium. There is a sanctity around recent sorrow on which the voice of praise ís only intrusive, and to which even the consolations of friendship are unwelcome and unavailing. But the tide of grief—such is the dispensation of Providence-must ebb with Nature; and the moment has at length arrived, when private affection may mingle its regrets with domestic grief, and when, averting the mind from the gloomy contemplation of the future, it is permitted to look back

with a sad and melancholy satisfaction on the qualities of that distinguished being whom we have lost forever.

Mrs. Craig was a native of Ireland, and after passing her early years in that country, resided in England with her uncle, whom she afterwards accompanied to the Westindies, where she became the wife of the late John Craig, esquire, and settled at Philadelphia towards the close of the revolution. There are among us many still living who remember the attention which her first arrival excited among our society, and how much were celebrated and admired, the beauty, the accomplishments, and the captivating manners of this lovely stranger. Of that society she long continued to form the delight and the ornament, till infirmity and sorrow withdrew her at last into retirement. She had been, from her earliest youth, of a most delicate frame, which the progress of time, and the loss of many of those to whom her heart was most firmly united, conspired to enfeeble, till, for many years, she had become an habitual invalid, almost exiled from her friends by constant and painful sickness. Yet, even during this seclusion, in the short intervals which suffering permitted her to devote to society, she exhibited all the elegance and fascination which had given so much lustre to her earlier years. For some time past, indeed, her health seemed gradually improving; and it was in the midst of anticipations of long and happy union, and of schemes of future enjoyment, that it pleased heaven to call her from the bosom of her family.

Of the desolation which this sudden calamity has carried to the hearts of that family--of the dreary prostration of all their hopes, and affections, and happiness, they best can judge, who, after watching, with an anxious eye, by the couch of one who was most loved and cherished, retire to a hasty dream of better health and happiness for the morrow, and wake to the cruel annihilation of them all.

For never yet did the tomb close upon a more pure and estimable woman. Our personal attachments have, we are persuaded, no share in misguiding our deliberate conviction, that there has been rarely in any age or country, a being who combined so many distinguished excellencies--so consummately endowed with high qualities--whose life was so perfectly pure and beneficent-and

who was so exempt from all the frailties which impair the dignity of human virtue.

The qualities by which she first attracted admiration were those accomplishments of mind and person, deemed most ornamental to her sex. The vigorous understanding which na ture had bestowed on her, was adorned with all the improvements which the most finished education could supply. A profound and various knowledge in most branches of useful or ele gant instruction-a familiar acquaintance with the language and literature of France and Italy--a wide range of reading and obe servation, united with long experience of the world-disciplined by a masculine judgment, and animated by a copious fund of natural eloquence, rendered her one of the most instructive and delightful companions. These solid qualities of the mind were accompanied by embellishments to which the most indifferent could not be insensible--by great personal beauty by all the graces which polished society demands and communicates; and, above all, by a peculiar and fascinating sweetness of manners, so simple, so touching, so sincere, as to win the admiration of all who approached her. Her affability was not the mere companion of elegant manners, nor of that desire to please, which, in the world, sometimes supplies the place of the real goodness which it imitates. With her it was the result of perfect benevolence. Her kindnesses, profuse as they were, came directly from the heart: nor was it possible to mistake, for the ordinary courtesies of society, the warm and generous benevolence by which she sought to promote the happiness of others.

This natural and habitual spirit of beneficence formed the most prominent and distinguishing part of her character. To do good to others, to promote the happiness of her fellow creatures, seemed to be the destiny, as it was the occupation of her life. With this benevolent purpose no selfish consideration was ever suffered for a moment to interfere, and any sacrifice of her own personal comfort or convenience was made instantly, cheerfully, and zealously, if it could possibly contribute to the enjoyments of those around her. Animated by such a spirit, she employed, with a generous profusion, the ample means which fortune had placed at her disposal, in the relief of the unhappy-with no ostentatious munificence, no in

discriminate and misdirected bounty-with no compromise of mere pecuniary assistance, for the feelings of charity. Her discerning mind knew how to seek meritorious distress, and her affectionate heart could double the value of her assistance, by counsel to the embarrassed, by consolation to the afflicted, by tenderness to the sick, by every gentle and soothing art that can alleviate sorrow. There was, indeed, a peculiar delicacy in her mild and unobtrusive charity. To every project of public bounty she contributed with an ample liberality; but it was her more welcome duty, alone and unperceived, to lift the humblest latch of suffering poverty; to smooth, by kindness, the pillow of misfortune, and retire from the effusion of its gratitude. From this course of generous charity, neither the occasional deceptions to which the prompt benevolence of her temper, and her seclusion sometimes exposed her, nor the rarer instances of ingratitude, could ever divert her. Slow to believe in the misconduct of others, and seeing the world as it was reflected from her own pure heart, her experience, instead of hardening her against the misfortunes of others, only made her more ready to pardon their faults: to err, if such an estimable purpose be, indeed, an error, on the safer side of humanity and it was her happiness to preserve through life, the same freshness of feeling, the same youthful and glowing confidence. which, in the spring of our years, gives so delightful an elasticity to our sentiments, but which too often fades and falls before our maturer experience.

Long and continued sickness, though it withdrew her from the gayer scenes of the world, abated none of her zeal for the welfare of others. She seemed rather, as her hold on life became feebler, to cling with a firmer grasp on that which alone had rendered it desirable in her eyes-the power of benefitting her fellow creatures; and that delicate being, whose sufferings would have chained a more selfish spirit, might be seen, even in the midst of sickness, exerting her feeble powers, and scarcely able to sustain herself whilst she administered comfort to others. The very last time she had strength to leave her home, was to visit the sick bed of a poor dependant woman. The extent of this beneficence was not known even to her immediate kindred, till the cruel tidings of her death brought, from every quarter, some wretched being, some