An old man:
Lively I walked life's journey through
Till I arrived at eighty-two;
Then calm descended here to rest
In hopes to be forever blest.
✠
Hackett to the author of Dr. Mead's epitaph:
Mead's not dead then, you say, only sleeping a little;
Why, egad, sir, you've hit it off there to a tittle;
Yet, friend, his awaking I very much doubt—
Pluto knows who he's got, and will ne'er let him out.
✠
Oldtown, Maine:
ORONO, AN INDIAN CHIEF, 1801.
Safe lodg'd within his blanket, here below,
Lie the last relics of old Orono;
Worn down with toil and care, he in a trice
Exchang'd his wigwam for a paradise.