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To fair fortune born, fhe beholds them with anguish,
Now wand'rers with her on a once hoftile foil;
Perhaps doom'd for life in chill pen'ry to languish,
Or abject dependence, or foul-crushing toil.
But the fea-boat, her hopes and her terrors renewing,
O'er the dim grey horizon now faintly appears;
She flies to the quay, dreading tidings of ruin,

All breathlefs with hafte, half expiring with fears. Poor mourner!-I would that my fortune had left me The means to alleviate the woes I deplore;

But, like thine, my hard fate has of affluence bereft me; I can warm the cold heart of the wretched no more!

TO MEDITATION.

BY MRS. ROBINSON.

WEET child of Reafon! maid ferene!

S. With folded arms and penfive mein,

Who, wand'ring near yon thorny wild,
So oft my length'ning hours beguil❜d.
How oft with thee I've ftroll'd unfeen,
O'er the lone valley's velvet green;
And brush'd away the twilight dew,
That ftain'd the cowflip's golden hue.
Oft as I ponder'd o'er the scene,

Would mem'ry picture to my heart,
How full of grief my days have been,
How swiftly rapt'rous hours depart;
Then wouldst thou, fweetly reas'ning, fay-
"Time journeys through the roughest day.”
The Hermit, from the world retir'd,
By calm Religion's voice infpir'd,
Tells how ferenely time glides on,
From crimson morn till fetting fun;
Within his breast nor forrows mourn,
Nor cares perplex, nor paffions burn;
No jealous fears, or boundless joy,
The tenor of his mind destroy.

He bleffes Heav'n's benign decree,
That gave his days to peace and thee.

The gentle maid, whofe rofeate bloom
Fades faft within a cloister's gloom,
Far, by relentless Fate, remov'd
From all her youthful fancy lov'd;
Led by thy downy hand, she strays
Along the green dell's tangled maze;
Where, thro' dank leaves, the whisp'ring show'rs
Awake to life the fainting flow'rs.
Abforb'd by thee, fhe hears no more
The diftant torrent's fearful roar-
The well-known Vefper's filver tone:
The bleak wind's defolating moan;
No more fhe weeps at fate's decree,
But yields her penfive foul to thee.
The Sage, whofe palfy'd head bends low,
'Midft fcatter'd locks of filv'ry fnow,
Still, by his mind's clear luftre, tells
What warmth within his bofom dwells;
How glows his heart with treasur'd lore,
How rich in Wisdom's boundless store!
He lifts his radiant eyes, which gleam
With Refignation's fainted beam;
And, as the weeping star of morn
Sheds luftre on the wither'd thorn,
His tear benign calm comfort throws
O'er rugged life's corroding woes!
His pious foul's enlighten'd rays
Dart forth to gild his wintry days;
He smiles ferene at Heav'n's decree,
And his last hour refigns to thee.

Oft my full heart to thee hath flown,
And wept for mis'ries not its own;
Oft have I funk upon thy breaft,
And lull'd my weary mind to reft;
Till I have own'd the bleft decree,
That gave my foul to peace and thee.

Now

THE SIGNAL OF REST.

BY T. SMART.

OW, in the weft, the fun refplendent sinks,
Wo his cot the weary ruftic hies;
Where on life's hardships he no longer thinks,
But sweet refreshing fleep new ftrength supplies.
Yon bell in vain may bid the eye-lids close,
(Though rung with most benevolent intent,}
When bafe injuftice interrupts repofe,

And foul ingratitude the heart has rent.
But fhould a sense of guilt its terrors bring,
And pierce feverely the corrupted mind;
(Day adding greater torments to the fting,)
Such hope, in nightly flumbers, peace to find.
Suff'ring for crimes, these may deferve their reft,
E'en HOWARD thought them not beneath his care,
Who oft, in prisons, met with the oppreft,
And kindly bade the wretched not defpair.
Friend of thy fpecies! thee my heart reveres,
But fhuns the fiend whom cruelties delight;
Whofe barb'rous acts increase a mother's fears,
And fill her helpless offspring with affright:
Who to past service is infenfate grown,

Which coft the fufferer life's better part;-
Nor that fuffic'd,-in prifon he was thrown!
Torn from those pledges dearest to his heart.
Why his revenge? 'Twas this:-He faw his pride
Foil'd in th' attempt to hold the injur'd down;
Whofe firmness fhow'd he fuch vile means defy'd,
And fcorn'd to tremble at an upstart's frown.

Hot was that rage the quiv'ring lip bespoke ;
The look malignant told th' avengement near:
Bar'd was the victim's bofom to the stroke,
Nor could a prifon's gloom occafion fear.
Let the proud tyrant laugh, and seem secure;
Boaft his injuftice, prize oppreffion's rod:
Judgment will come!-His punishment is fure,
Whose cruel deeds offend a righteous God.

THE GRANDAM.

ANONYMOUS.

ROUND a brisk fire, the hearth fwept clean,

And not a cinder to be feen:

Tray fast asleep, and pufs a purring,
All filent, not a murmur ftirring;
One winter's night I try'd, at random,
To play off tricks upon my Grandam→→
Laugh'd at her manners, mock'd her gait,
And prated as all children prate.
She gave my head a tender ftroke,
Patted my cheek, and thus she spoke :
Age has it weakness, child, 'tis true,

• But then it has its wifdom too:
I, what I have, am like to lofe;
• You, what you are to have,

choose :

may Let prudence be your firft election, And learn from my defects perfection. • You fay I'm toothless-I agree; As toothless let your anger be:

• Purblind-'tis true; fhould scandal name. • The object of another's fhame,

And bid your eye the object view, 'Tis well if you are purblind too : • And fo I tremble-learn from me, • When hopes and reafon difagree, To tremble, fearful and appall'd, • Nor act what cannot be recall'd: I limp-my racing days are paft; Befides, they ftumble who go faft : And fhould you e'er difaftrous run, Headlong, as many folks have done, • Where dire contention's rabble-rout, • Deal militating blows about,

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Exert yourself, nor truft delay,

• While you have ftrength to limp away, Upon a ftaff you fee me leaning

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Mark me, and understand my meaning.
My frame is weak, and fo's
your mind,

Tott'ring with every blast of wind,

'On virtue lean through life's hard gales,

That's a support which never fails.

1

Thus the old lady, in a trice, Cramm'd me with fweetmeats and advice: I liften'd, lick'd my lips, as loath To lofe the flightest goût of both; And while my mem'ry holds her feat, The fire fo brifk, the hearth fo neat, The purring cat, the fleeping Tray, Shall never from that mem'ry ftray; Nor, howfoe'er by fortune toft, Shall this advice be ever loft.

THE AFRICAN BOY.

BY MR. JERNINGHAM.

H! tell me, little mournful Moor,

A Why fill you linger on the fhore?

Halte to your playmates, hafte away,
Nar loiter here with fond delay:
When morn unveil'd her radiant eye,
You hail'd me as I wander'd by;
Returning at th' approach of eve,
Your meek falute I ftill receive.

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Benign inquirer, thou shall know,
Why here my lonely moments flow:
'Tis faid thy countrymen (no more
Like rav'ning fharks that haunt the fhore)
Return to blefs, to raise, to cheer,
And pay compaffion's long arrear.
'Tis faid, the num'rous captive train,
Late bound by the degrading chain,
Triumphant come with fwelling fails
'Mid fmiling fkies and western gales;
They come, with feftive heart and glee,
Their hands unfhackled-minds as free;
They come at mercy's great command,
To repoffefs their native land.

The gales that o'er the ocean ftray,
And chase the waves in gentle play,

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