Are these thy serious thoughts?—Ah! turn thine eyes

Where the poor houseless shiv'ring female lies.
She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest,
Has wept at tales of innocence distrest;
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn,
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn;
Now lost to all; her friends, her virtue fled,

Near her betrayer's door she lays her head,

And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the show'r, With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour,

When idly first, ambitious of the town,

She left her wheel and robes of country brown.

Do thine, sweet AUBURN, thine, the loveliest train,

Do thy fair tribes participate her pain?

E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led,
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread!

Ah! no. To distant climes, a dreary scene,
Where half the convex world intrudes between,
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go,
Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe.

Far diff'rent there from all that charm'd before,
The various terrors of that horrid shore;

Designed by F.Wheatley R.A.

Engraved by A.Smith A.

New lost to all: her friends, her virtue fled,

Near her

betrayer's door she lays her head(.

The Deserted Village.

Published 1December 1800, by FJ.Du Roverty, London.

Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray,
And fiercely shed intolerable day;

Those matted woods where birds forget to sing,
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling;

Those pois'nous fields with rank luxuriance crown'd,
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around;
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake;
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey,
And savage men, more murd'rous still than they;
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,
Mingling the ravag'd landscape with the skies.
Far diff'rent these from ev'ry former scene,
The cooling brook, the grassy vested green,
The breezy covert of the warbling grove,
That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love.

Good heav'n! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day That call'd them from their native walks away;

When the poor exiles, ev'ry pleasure past,

Hung round the bow'rs, and fondly look'd their last, And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain

For seats like these beyond the western main;

And, shudd'ring still to face the distant deep,
Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep!
The good old sire the first prepar'd to go
To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe;
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave,
He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave.
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears,
The fond companion of his helpless years,
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,
And left a lover's for a father's arms.

With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,
And blest the cot where ev'ry pleasure rose;
And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear,
And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear;
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief

In all the silent manliness of grief.

Oh luxury! thou curs'd by heav'n's decree, How ill exchang'd are things like these for thee! How do thy potions, with insidious joy,

Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy!

Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown,

Boast of a florid vigour not their own;