EPITAPH.
Stop, stranger stop, let one sad tear bedew
That sorrowing face, while this cold stone you view:
Here death in icy arms confines that fair,
Who once was lovely as the angels are;
But think not strange————ever to behold
Transcendent worth on sculptur’d marble told;
Ah no!—suffice it, if one mournful tear
Shall mix with mine in tender sorrow here.
NEW-YORK: Printed by JOHN BULL, No. 115, Cherry-Street, where every Kind of Printing work is executed with the utmost Accuracy and Dispatch.—Subscriptions for this Magazine (at 2s. per month) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and by E. MITCHELL, Bookseller, No. 9, Maiden-Lane.