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Difcharg'd my grasping foul; push'd me from shore,
And launch'd me into life without an oar.
What had I loft, if, conjugally kind,
By nature hating, yet by vows confin'd,
Untaught the matrimonial bounds to flight,
And coldly confcious of a husband's right,
You had faint-drawn me with a form alone,
A lawful lump of life by force your own!
Then, while your backward will retrench'd defire, 35
And unconcurring spirits lent no fire,

I had been born your dull, domestic heir,
Load of your life, and motive of your care;
Perhaps been poorly rich, and meanly great,
The flave of pomp, a cypher in the state;
Lordly neglectful of a worth unknown,
And slumbering in a feat, by chance my own.
Far nobler bleffings wait the Baftard's lot;
Conceiv'd in rapture, and with fire begot!
Strong as neceffity, he ftarts away,
Climbs against wrongs, and brightens into day.
Thus unprophetic, lately misinfpir'd,

I fung: Gay fluttering hope, my fancy fir'd;
Inly fecure, through confcious fcorn of ill,
Nor taught by wisdom, how to balance will,
Rafhly deceiv'd, I faw no pits to fhun,
But thought to purpose and to act were one;
Heedlefs what pointed cares pervert his way,
Whom caution arms not, and whom woes betray;
But now, expos'd, and fhrinking from diftrefs,

I fly to fhelter, while the tempefts prefs;

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My Mufe to grief refigns the varying tone,
The raptures languish, and the numbers groan.
O memory! thou foul of joy and pain!
Thou actor of our paffions o'er again!
Why dost thou aggravate the wretch's woe?
Why add continuous smart to every blow?
Few are my joys; alas! how foon forgot!
On that kind quarter thou invad'st me not:
While fharp and numberlefs my forrows fall;
Yet thou repeat'ft, and multiply'st them all!

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Is chance a guilt? that my difafterous heart, For mischief never meant, must ever smart? Can felf-defence be fin !-Ah, plead no more! What though no purpos'd malice ftain'd thee o'er? 70 Had heaven befriended thy unhappy side,

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Thou hadst not been provok'd-Or thou hadft died.
Far be the guilt of homeshed blood from all
On whom, unfought, embroiling dangers fall!
Still the pale Dead revives, and lives to me,
To me through Pity's eye condemn'd to fee.
Remembrance veils his rage, but swells his fate;
Griev'd I forgive, and am grown cool too late.
Young, and unthoughtful then; who knows, one day,
What ripening virtues might have made their way! 80
He might have liv'd till folly died in shame,
Till kindling wisdom felt a thirst for fame.

He might perhaps his country's friend have prov'd;
Both happy, generous, candid, and belov'd

He might have fav'd some worth, now doom'd to fall; And I, perchance, in him, have murder'd all.

O fate

O fate of late repentance! always vain :
Thy remedies but lull undying pain.

Where shall my hope find reft ?-No Mother's care
Shielded my infant innocence with prayer :

No father's guardian hand my youth maintain'd,
Call'd forth my virtues, or from vice restrain'd.
Is it not thine to fnatch some powerful arm,
First to advance, then fkreen from future harm?
Am I return'd from death, to live in pain?
Or would Imperial Pity save in vain ?

Diftruft it not-
—What blame can mercy find,
Which gives at once a life, and rears a mind ?
Mother, miscall'd, farewell-of foul fevere,
This fad reflection yet may force one tear:
All I was wretched by to you I ow'd,
Alone from strangers every comfort flow'd!

Loft to the life you gave, your fon no more,
And now adopted, who was doom d before,
New-born, I may a nobler Mother claim,
But dare not whisper her immortal name;
Supremely lovely, and ferenely great!
Majestic Mother of a kneeling State !
QUEEN of a People's heart, who ne'er before
Agreed-yet now with one confent adore!
One contest yet remains in this defire,

Who most shall give applaufe, where all admire.

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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

VER SE S

OCCASIONED BY

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE LADY

VISCOUNTESS TYRCONNEL's

RECOVERY AT BATH.

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HERE Thames with pride beholds Augusta's charms,

And either India pours into her arms;

Where Liberty bids honeft arts abound,
And pleafures dance in one eternal round;
High-thron'd appears the laughter-loving dame,
Goddess of mirth! Euphrofyne her name.
Her fimile more cheerful than a vernal morn;
All life! all bloom! of Youth and Fancy born.
Touch'd into joy, what hearts to her submit!
She looks her Sire, and speaks her Mother's wit,

O'er the gay world the fweet infpirer reigns;
Spleen flies, and Elegance her pomp sustains.
Thee, goddess! thee! the fair and young obey;
Wealth, Wit, Love, Mufic, all confefs thy fway.

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In

In the bleak wild ev'n Want by thee is blefs'd,
And pamper'd Pride without thee pines for reft.
The rich grow richer, while in thee they find
The matchless treasure of a smiling mind.
Science by thee flows foft in focial ease,
And virtue, lofing rigour, learns to please.

The goddess fummons each illuftrious name,
Bids the gay talk, and forms th' amufive game.
She, whofe fair throne is fix'd in human fouls,
From joy to joy her eye delighted rolls.
But where (he cried) is the, my favorite! she
Of all my race, the dearest far to me!
Whofe life's the life of each refin'd delight?
She faid-But no Tyrconnel glads her fight.
Swift funk her laughing eyes in languid fear;
Swift rofe the fwelling figh, and trembling tear.
In kind low murmurs all the lofs deplore!
Tyrconnel droops, and pleasure is no more.

The goddess, filent, paus'd in museful air;
But Mirth, like Virtue, cannot long defpair.
Celestial-hinted thoughts gay hope inspir'd,
Smiling the rofe, and all with hope were fir'd.
Where Bath's afcending turrets meet her eyes;
Straight wafted on the tepid breeze the flies,
She flies, her elder fifter Health to find;
She finds her on the mountain-brow reclin'd.
Around her birds in earliest concert fing;
Her cheek the femblance of the kindling fpring;
Fresh-tinctur'd like a fummer-evening sky,
And a mild fun fits fmiling in her eye.

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Loofe