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And can that something, each man calls “ HIMSELF,"

Midst this wide miracle of earth and sky, Walte the swift moments in the toil for pelf,

Nor raise one thought to Nature's Majesty ?
On the globe's surface creep, a grov’ling worm!

Nor joy the noon-tide radiance to behold
Nor trace the mighty hand that guides the storm-

But deem existence relative to gold?
Ah! since this awful Now remains for me,

To think, to breathe, to wonder at the Whole,
To move, to touch, to taste, to hear, to see,

To call the mystic consciousness, my foui! Fain would I seek awhile the sportive shade,

Ere the scene close upon this doubtful state;
Catch ev'ry painted phantom ere it fade,

And leave the vast uncertainty to Fate.
But GRIEF IS MINE—yet can I quit the crew

Whose bosoms burn with avarice and pride,
In yon blue vault to quench my thirsty view,

Or tell my feelings to the boilt'rous tide. For are there not, as journeying on we go,

With pilgrim step through an unfriendly vale, Oppression, Malice, Cruelty, and Woe?

And do not Falsehood's venom'd shafts allail ? Were it not nobler far, with social love,

As fellow-trav’llers in a rugged road, That each the other's evils should remove,

And with joint force sustain the gen’ral load ? O! while such fancy'd happiness I trace,

A glow of sadness runs through ev'ry vein; Rapture's warm tear steals silent down my face,

And thus I wake the philanthropic Atrain : Long, long, may Britain's gen'rous: Ille be blest

With foreign fame, domestic joys increase; At ev'ry insult shake the warlike crest;

Then wave her laurels in the Bow'r of Peace ! Bleft be her Sons, in hardy valour bold,

And all who haunt meek Learning's facred shade;

Th'aspiring young, and the reposing old;

The modest matron, and th' enchanting maid; And might the bard upon himself bestow

One humble wish, that soon his cares may end; With the dead year, resign his weight of woe!

Or, with the thorns of life, at least some roses blend !

THE PROSTITUTE.

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S trav’llers through life's vary'd paths we go,
Ah! deep, and frequent is the good man's figh
O’er thy hard fuff'rings, poor Humanity!

What form is that, which wanders up and down,
Some poor unfriended orphan of the town!
Heavy, indeed, hath ruthless forrow press'd
Her cold hand at her miserable breast;
Worn with disease, with not a friend to save,
Or shed a tear of pity o'er her grave;
The sickly lustre leaves her faded eye;
She sinks in need, in pain, and infamy.

Ah! happier innocent! on whose chaste cheek
The spotless rose of virtue blushes meek,
Come shed, in mercy shed, a filent tear,
O'er a loft sister's solitary bier!
She might have bloom’d, like thee, in vernal life,
She might have bloom'd the fond endearing wife-
The tender daughter! but want's chilling dew
Blasted each scene hope's faithless pencil drew!
No anxious friend fat weeping o'er her bed,
Or ask'd the blessing on her liule head!
She never knew, though beauty mark'd her face,
What beggars woman-kind of every grace!
Ne'er clalp'd a mother's knees with fond delight,
Or lifp'd to Heav'n her pray’r of peace at night!
Alas ! her helpless childhood was consign’d,
To the unfeeling mercy of mankind !

EL EGY.

Written to diffuade a young Lady from frequenting the Tomb

of her deceased Lover.

BY THE REV. N. BULL.

;

OW, through the dusky air, on leaden wings, Hark! in the breeze the gath’ring tempest sings;

How drear it murmurs in the rustling shade! Loud, and more loud, is heard the bursting sound

Of thunder, and the peal of distant rain; While lightnings, gliding o'er the wild profound,

Fire the broad bosom of the dashing main. Now dies the voice of village mirth ; no more

Is seen the friendly lantern's glimm'ring light; Safe in his cot, the shepherd bars his door

On thee, Eliza! and the storm of night. In yon sequester'd grove, whose sullen shade

Sighs deeply on the blast, dost thou remain, Still faithful to the spot, where he is laid,

For whom the tears of beauty flow in vain! Ah! left alone beneath the dreadful gloom,

Companion of the tempest! left alone ! I see thee, sad-reclining o'er the tomb,

A pallid form, and wedded to the stone ! Ah! what avails it, Sorrow's gentlest child !

To wet th' unfruitful urn with many a tear; To call on Edward's name, with accents wild,

And bid his phantom from the grave appear? No gliding spirits skim the dreary ground,

Dress the green turf, or animate the gloom; No soft aërial music swells around,

Nor voice of sadness murmurs from the tomb. Cold is the breast that glow'd with love, and pale

The cheek that, like the morning, blush'd before ; Mute are the lips that told the flatt'ring tale,

And rayless is the eye that flatter'd more.

Deep, deep beneath the dark mysterious grave,

Thy tears he sees not, nor can hear thy sighs : Deaf is thine Edward as th' Atlantic wave,

Cold as the blast that rends the polar skies. Oh! turn, and seek some shelt'ring kind retreat ;

Bleak howls the wind, and deadly is the dew : No pitying star, to guide thy weary feet,

Breaks through the void of darkness on thy view. Think on the dangers that attend thy way!

The gulph deep-yawning, and the treach’rous flood; The midnight ruffian, prowling for his prey,

Fiend of despair and darkness, grim with blood ! But, oh! if thoughts terrific fail to move,

Let pity win thee back to thine abode ; Melt at a lifter's tears, a mother's love,

Aw'd by the voice of reason, and of God!

THE PENITENT MOTHER.

BY MISS HOLCROFT.

R E ! cale;
For thine's an age of truth and

peace;
Kind love thy infant days shall rear,
Though love has planted daggers here.
Disgrace and grief benight my brow,
Fond victim of a perjur'd vow;
A vile seducer's guileful art
Betray'd my unsuspecting heart.
'Twas he destroy'd my spotless fame,
But thou shalt long survive

shame;
For, when in death I sleep at rest,
The world will cease to wound th’oppressid.
Then hush, sweet babe! thy cries give o'er,
Distract my tortur'd breast no more;
For love thy infant days shall rear,
And grant my hapless fate a tear.

my

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THE WASHING-DAY.

THI
THE Muses are turn'd gossips; they have lost

The buskin'd step, and clear high-sounding phrase, ,
Language of Gods. Come, then, domestic Muse,
In slip-lhod measure, loosely prattling on
Of farm or orchard, pleasant curds and cream,
Or drowning flies, or shoe lost in the mire
By little whimp’ring boy, with rueful face :
Come, Muse, and sing the dreaded Washing-Day.

-Ye who beneath the yoke of wedlock bend,
With bowed soul, full well ye ken the day
Which week smooth sliding after week brings on
Too soon; for to that day nor peace belongs
Nor comfort:- Ere the first gray streak of dawn,
The red-armd washers come and chase repose.
Nor pleasant smile, nor quaint device of mirth,
E'er visited that day :-The very cat,
From the wet kitchen scar'd and reeking hearth,
Visits the parlour, an unwonted guest.
The silent breakfast-meal is foon dispatch'd,
Uninterrupted, fave by anxious looks
Cast at the low’ring sky, if sky should low'r.
From that last evil, O preserve us, heav'ns !
For should the skies pour down, adieu to all
Remains of quiet; then expect to hear
Of fad disasters--dirt and gravel ftains
Hard to efface, and loaded lines at once
Snapped short--and linen-horse by dog thrown down,
And all the petty miseries of life.
Saints have been calm while stretch'd upon the rack,
And Montezuma smild on burning coals;
But never yet did housewife notable
Greet with a smile a rainy washing-day.
-But grant the welkin fair, ' require not thou
Who call'st thyself, perchance, the master there,
Or study swept, of nicely dufted coat,
Or usual 'tendance ; alk not, indiscreet,
Thy stockings mended, though the yawning rents
Gape wide as Erebus, nor hope to find

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