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Bid to its sheath the sword return,
And rescu'd nations cease to mourn.
Soon may the rising century see,

The groaning world from carnage free;
Great source of everlasting love!
Send down from heaven the holy dove,
For ever, from the human heart,
Bid pride and black revenge depart;
And with eternal olives bind,

The hands and hearts of all our kind.
Sidmouth,

Jan. 1, 1801.

B.

ON THE

RUINS OF A RELIGIOUS HOUSE.

HALL, ale pouring op endea

To pale misfortunes sorrowing sons endear'd, Where oft the bleeding heart, from day to day, Wept o'er its woes, and sigh'd itself awayWhile pensive o'er thy fall'n remains I tread, And mark the ruins of thy glory fled, The joy mantled tow'rs that round me rise, The chasms thro' which thy own sad genius sighs, The broken arches, the deserted shrines,

The solemn gloom, where scarce a sun-beam shines,
My soul detests the blind infuriate rage,

Which, while it crush'd the abuses of the age,
Dar'd too on thee its impious hands to lay,
And sweep thy country's ornament away.
No more, alas! a refuge here is found,
No more the pitying fathers melt around,
No more compassion sooths the tortur'd breast,
No more submission makes those tortures blest,
No more within thy walls devotion dwells,
No more the anthem's solemn cadence swells,
No more, with transport beaming in his eye,
While yet on earth, the inmate of the sky,
Th' impatient spirit waits the wish'd-for lot,
Where time and care are with their griefs forgot,

Where, once in works of tenderness and love, The transcripts of the gentle Jesus strove,

And sympathy would oft its vigils keep

By the pale wretch, and weep with them that weep;
Where oft the hallow'd taper in his hand,
Beside th' expiring saint, the saint would stand,
Pour on the soul the sweet celestial balm,
Which Gilead drops, our terrors to becalm,
Lift to the cross the languid dying eye,
Mark what he taught, and learn himself to die.
There dreary solitude in silence dwells,
Unthrong'd the aisles, untenanted the cells;
And where the tranquil group would council hold,
And where their beads the pious fathers told,
And where the cares that wring my breast forgot,
How pray'r would sooth, how praise sublime their lot;
A death-like stillness holds its solemn reign,
Nor aught presumes its empire to arraign,
Save when the melancholy birds of night,
With shrill response to deeds of death invite;
Save when the daw, with pertly clam'rous sound,
Wheels sportively thy battlements around,
And oft, at eve, th' affrighted zephir moans,
Sighs in the blast, or in the tempest groans,
Ah! me that naught beneath the spangled vault,
Can 'scape th' unhallow'& sceptics rude assault,
That sorrow's pittance earn'd with many a tear,
The courtly ruffian's avarice could not spare-
Good God! how long shall suff'ring mah lament
A blessing promis'd, but a scorpion sent!
How long shall wrathful vengeance thus delay,
To crush the traitor, and avenge the prey?

Where now shall pining anguish hide its head?
Where find the peace thy friendly roof would shed a
Where shall this breaking heart for refuge fly,,
The world renounce, and all its spight defy?
Alas! of all our pious fathers pains,
Not e'en one lonely sanctu'ry remains;
O'erwhelm'd in reformation's frantic tide,
The wreck alone frowns dark on ev'ry side

Their bosoms bar'd to ev'ry ruffian blast,

Their plunder'd spoils 'mid courtly minions cast;
Alike of tenants and of means bereft,

To prompt, but not to hush my sighs, is left.
-O, had th' unhappy-lot been cast,
In distant days, ere yet thy noon was past;
Ere folly yet its blasting course had run,
Or Henry's guilt his country's pride undone;
Thine, then, perhaps, had been the task divine,
To cheer, to heal this bleeding breast of mine,
Some kindred mind, long on the tempest toss'd,
Whose pangs, but not whose sympathy, was lost,
With tender interest had my soul explor'd,
And on its wounds compassion's balsam pour'd,
Bath'd with its tears my fainting dying heart,
Now lull'd its woe, now taught to bear the smart.
O could I now my weary footsteps bend,
To climes where yet thy kindred spires ascend,
Perhaps some frowning Alp, some dreary dell,
Might yield to wretchedness like mine, a cell;
Perhaps, where vast St. Lawrence rapid tides,
Torn from its native shores, Montreal divides,
Some gen'rous foe, no more by injury wrung,
No more by native hate and discord stung,
Me to his cell with welcome kind wou'd greet,
And, like a brother found, rejoicing meet;
Dear thought! oh, how it lulls my tortur'd mind I
In but a gleam of hope, what sweets we find!
And are there yet beneath the starry rounds,
Those who can feel for disappointment's wounds,
Those who can relish pity's blest employ,
And change the tears of grief to tears of joy?
Yes, happy isle, in thy monastic shade,
Ere long shall- -hide his weary head,
Resign each flatt'ring dream of bliss on earth,
Resign the hope that gave th' illusions birth,
Thy sons, with more exalted views impress'd,
Shall root th' impoison'd passion from my breast,
Point to more rich pursuits my active mind,
And teach me where content and peace to find;

With them I'll run devotion's ardent race,
With them the ample range of science trace;
Each shall with each in kindest cares contend,
And his the palm, who proves the gentlest friend;
Thus shall our years their destin'd circles run,
Placid as sinks the summer's ev'ning sun,
Thus will we wait 'till that blest morn arise,
Which drops the curtain and unfolds the skies.
-'tis done-I go-across the distant main,
Content of mind, and ease of heart to gain;

'Tis well, should zephyrs waft me to this shore-→→ 'Twere better, should my bark be seen no more, Then lodg'd in some unfathom'd cavern deep, Tempests shall rock my restless cares to sleep, While o'er my head th' arboring corals meet, And tangled weeds weave round my winding-sheet, And hoarse and deep the floun'dring oceans swell, Sounds thro' its caves my solemn-parting-fun'ral knell.

****

THE

IN

RIGHTS OF BOTH SEXES.

N Woolstonecroft's page, Bridget Bearwell was skill'd,

And her fancy with novel inventions was fill'd;

But Bridget improv'd on Miss Woolstonecroft's plan, And projected some small revolution in man.

"Tis plain," she exclaim'd, "that the sexes should share,

In each other's employments, amusements and cares.
I'm taught in man's duties and honours to join,
And, therefore, let man be partaker of mine:
Since to share with my husband in logic I'm fit,
In classical lore, mathematics, and wit;

In return, he shall yield the pot, kettle, and ladle,
And unite in the charge of the kitchen and cradle."
Thus Bridget resolv'd things in future should be,
As she dandled two twins, a week old, on her knee.

When her husband came home, she develop'd her plan, And bade him begin those new duties of man: "Henceforth, John," she cried, "our employments are common,

Be woman like man, and be man like to woman; Here, take up this child, John, and I'll keep his brother:

While I wet-nurse the one, you shall dry-nurse the other."

ACROSTIC

ΤΟ Α

YOUNG LADY OF SIXTEEN.

AKE much of time, 'tis ever on the wing,

while life is in the spring,

Shun idle pleasures, follow wisdom's rule,
Strive to excel, and shine in virtue's school-
Judge not from outward shew of things that are,
All is not gold that glitters :-then beware!
Nor too much on your own opinion rest,
Experienc'd friends can give advice the best.

Employ your thoughts in learning how to sail
Life's troubled sea, and catch each fav'ring gale;
Exalt your mind, and fix a steady eye
Above this lower world, where pleasures die.
Nothing is constant in this changing scene,
Our noblest pleasures are at best terrene.
Riches and honour, health and beauty fade,
Years pass like clouds, time is but light and shade.
On all your paths may Heav'n its blessings show'r,
Unmask each snare, and give you ev'ry hour,
New cause to say, or sing, till life shall end,
God is my guardian, guide, and bounteous friend.

ONAS.

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