In England The Only Homage Which They

Divine In Hookas, Glorious In A Pipe When Tipp'd With Amber, Mellow, Rich, And Ripe;... Yet Thy True Lovers More Admire By Far Thy Naked Beauties - Give Me A Cigar!

I Die But First I Have Possessed, And Come What May, I Have Been Blessed.

War, War Is Still The Cry,-"war Even To The Knife!"

Still From The Fount Of Joy's Delicious Springs Some Bitter O'er The Flowers Its Bubbling Venom Flings.

Here Lies Interred In The Eternity Of The Past, From Whence There Is No Resurrection For The Days - Whatever There May Be For The Dust - The Thirty-third Year Of An Ill-spent Life, Which, After A Lingering Disease Of Many Months Sank Into A Lethargy, And Expired, January 22d, 1821, A.d. Leaving A Successor Inconsolable For The Very Loss Which Occasioned Its Existence.