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He swore by Gad it was an odd thing,
The name of fitch was such reproach,
the bell and call'd his coach.
BY MISS ELIZA RYVES.
In pity she turn’d to behold, How it shiver'd and shrunk from the merciless blaft,
Then fell all benumb’d with the cold.
She rais'd it, and touch'd by the innocent's fate,
It's soft form to her bosom lhe preft;
It bleated, and dy'd on her breast.
And weeping, fpring-flow'rs o'er it laid:
“ To the tempests of fortune betray’d. “ Too tender, like thee, the rude shock to sustain,
“And deny'd the relief which would save ; “ 'Tis lost, and when pity and kindness are vain,
“ Thus we dress the poor sufferer's grave.”
SONNET. TO SLEEP.
BY CHARLOTTE SMITH.
TOME, balmy Sleep! tir’d nature's soft resort !
On these fad temples all thy poppies shed; And bid gay dreams, from Morpheus’airy court,
Float in light vision round my aching head ! Secure of all thy blessings, partial pow'r!
On his hard bed the peasant throws him down; And the poor sea boy, in the rudest hour,
Enjoys thee more than he who wears a crown. Clasp?d in her faithful shepherd's guardian arms,
Well may the village girl sweet slumbers prove; And they, O gentle Sleep!-still taste thy charms,
Who wake to labour, liberty, and love. But still thy opiate aid doft thou deny, To calm the anxious breast, to close the streaming eye.
BY THE SAME.
ARK gath’ring clouds involve the threat'ning skies,
• The lea heaves, conscious of th’impending gloom, • Deep hollow murmurs from the cliffs arise ;
They come—the Spirits of the Tempest come ! • Oh! may such terrors mark th' approaching night,
*As reign’d on that these streaming eyes deplore ! • Flash, ye red fires of heav'n, with fatal light,
And with conflicting winds, ye waters, roar ! Loud, and more loud, ye foaming billows, burst!
Ye warring elements, more fiercely rave ! • Till the wide waves o’erwhelm the spot accurst,
Where ruthless Av’rice finds a quiet grave !' Thus with clasp'd hands, wild looks, and streaming hair,
While shrieks of horror broke her trembling speech,
Á wretched maid--the victim of despair,
Survey'd the threat’ning storm and desart beach. Then to the tomb, where now the father slept,
Whose rugged nature bade her sorrows flow, Frantic she turn'd—and beat her breast and wept,
Invoking vengeance on the dust below. • Lo! rising there above each humbler heap,
• Yon cypher'd stones his name and wealth relate, Who gave
his son-remorseless—to the deep, • While I, his living victim, curse my fate. Oh!
loft love! no tomb is plac'd for thee, That may to strangers' eyes thy worth impart; • Thou hast no grave, but in the stormy sea,
• And no memorial, but this breaking heart. • Forth to the world, a widow'd wand'rer driv'n,
• I pour to winds and waves th’ unheeded tear, • Try with vain efforts to submit to heav'n,
• And fruitless call on him," who cannot hear!" O might I fondly clasp him once again,
• While o’er my head th' infuriate billows pour, • Forget in death this agonizing pain,
• And feel his father's cruelty no more! • Part, raging waters, part, and shew beneath,
In your dread caves, his pale and mangled form, • Now, while the demons of despair and death
• Ride on the blast, and urge the howling storm! • Lo! by the lightning's momentary blaze,
• I see him rise the whit’ning waves above, • No longer such as when in happier days
• He gave th'enchanted hours to me and love. • Such, as when daring the enchafed sea,
And courting dang’rous toil, he often said, • That ev'ry peril one soft smile from me,
• One figh of speechless tenderness o’erpaid. • But dead, disfigur’d, while between the roar
• Of the loud wave his accents pierce mine ear, · And seem to say—Ah! wretch, delay no more,
• But come, unhappy mourner, meet me here.
Yet, pow'rful fancy, bid the phantom stay,
Still let me hear him!—Tis already past; • Along the waves his shadow glides away;
• I lose his voice amidst the deafʼning blaft. • Ah! wild illusion, born of frantic pain,
• He hears not, comes not from his war'ry bed; • My tears, my anguilh, my despair are vain,
• 'Th' insatiate ocean gives not up its dead. "'Tis not his voice! Hark! the deep thunders roll;
• Upheaves the ground; the rocky barriers fail; Approach, ye horrors that delight my soul,
• Despair, and Death, and Desolation, hail!' The ocean hears—th'embodied waters come,
Rise o'er the land, and with resistless sweep Tear from its base the proud aggressor's tomb,
And bear the injur'd to eternal sleep!
SONNET. TO A POOR BOY.
BY MR. ANDERSON.
For I have learn'd to feel another's woe; Yes, my heart pants to make thy forrow less,
And dry the tear which mis’ry bids to flow. Ye, whom nor cold nor pining hunger press,
Nor frowning POVERTY's sad anguish know: What boots it, though you shine like insects gay,
The vain unthinking parasites of pow'r? How oft doth Syren Vice lead you aftray?
How oft embitter pleasure’s gayest hour ? Tho' never thou enjoy'st the plenteous meal!
Tho’ ratter'd thy coarse weeds—yet, poor forlorn! Sooner thy keenest sorrows would I feel, Than be the Son of WEALTH that mocks thy woes