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Sir John, when rising to depart,
Turn'd to the darling of his heart,
And cry'd, with ardour in his eye,
"Come, Betsy, bid mamma good bye."
The lady, trembling, answer'd "No-
Go, kiss papa, my Betsy, go;

The child shall live with me," she cry'd,
"The child shall chuse," Sir John reply'd.
Poor Betsy look'd at each by turns,
And each the starting tear discerns.
My lady asks, with doubt and fear,
"Will you not live with me, my dear?”
"Yes," half resolv'd, reply'd the child,
And, half suppress'd her tears, she smil'd.
"Come, Betsy," cry'd Sir John, "you'll go
And live with dear papa, I know."

"Yes," Betsy cry'd-the lady then
Address'd the wond'ring child again :
"The time to live with both is o'er,

This day we part to meet no more:
Chuse then"-here grief o'erflow'd her breast,
And tears burst out, too long suppress'd.
The child, who tears and chiding join'd,
Suppos'd papa displeas'd, unkind;
And try'd, with all her little skill,
To sooth his oft relenting will.
"Do," cry'd the lisper, "papa! do
Love dear mamma!-mamma loves you!"
Subdu'd, the source of manly pride,
No more his looks his heart bely'd;

The tender transport forc'd its way,
They both confess'd each other's sway,
And, prompted by the social smart,
Breast rush'd to breast, and heart to heart;
Each clasp'd their Betsy o'er and o'er,
And Tom drove empty from the door.
You, that have passions for a tear,

Give nature vent, and drop it here.

Dodsley's Collection.

LUXURY AND WANT.

A VISION.

As late I mus'd on fortune's ebb and flow,

Life's airy pleasures, and substantial woe,
The thoughtless mirth that laughs in Pleasure's eye,
The boast of vice, and pride of vanity,
O'er nodding reason downy slumbers stole,
And fancy's visions open'd on my soul.

Aloft, on proud lonic columns rear'd, A sumptuous dome in ruin'd pomp appear'd; A baseless pillar here, with moss o'ergrown, Press'd earth's green bosom with a length of stone; There, a tall portal, sculptur'd once so gay, Records no story but its own decay.

I enter'd-crowds, who blush'd to be descry'd, With famish'd looks, thro' mould'ring arches glide. I paus'd, and curious as I gaz'd around,

Saw a lean hag lie stretch'd along the ground:
Round either arm a tatter'd rug she drew,
Her shame conceal'd with rags of various hue;
A cloth her forehead bound, her legs were bare,
And foul and clotted was her grizzled hair.
"Whence, and what art thou, wretch," surpriz'd I cry'd;
"Want is my name, well known," the wretch reply'd;
"The work of Luxury, this lofty dome,

So righteous Jove ordains, is now my home.
Time was this roof return'd the dulcet voice
Of music, blended with a critic's choice;
Dependent thence a thousand tapers glow'd,
The vine's rich juice from silver fountains flow'd;
An hundred dainties o'er the board were spread,
And all Arabia's spicy fragrance shed.

The velvet couches, and the cushion'd chair,
Swell'd high with down, as soft as Summer's air;
And female beauty, smiling o'er the scene,
Spread joy around, of ev'ry joy the queen!

"Then at these doors, by hunger and by grief
Oppress'd, with suppliant voice I sought relief:
Relief I sought, alas! but sought in vain,
With poignant taunt rebuk'd, and sour disdain.
The batt'ning priest, with supercilious face,
Inferr'd from indigence the want of grace.

The lawyer, in quaint terms, with look demure,
Gave hints of statutes against vagrant poor.
Unmov'd, and cool, the garter'd statesman cry'd,
For me fit refuge colonies supply'd.

I sigh'd in secret, and to Heav'n my heart
Ascending, Heav'n in pity took my part:
Loud thunder roll'd—the fabric from its base
Shook, and proud Lux'ry vanish'd from the place.
Th' astonish'd crowd their patron's fall deplore,
And pale and trembling issue from the door.
I enter'd, prompted by a voice divine,

Which thrice repeated "Want! this pile is thine;
For know, by Jove and Fate it stands decreed,
Where Lux'ry riots thou shalt still succeed."
Here unmolested from that hour I reign,
And all the court of Lux'ry forms my train;
Here still receiv'd by me, as hither driv'n
By keen necessity, the scourge of heav'n;
These are the wretches which around me throng,
To me the lawyer, statesman, priest, belong."
She ceas'd; her words such strong emotions bred,
They wak'd me trembling, and the vision fled.
Save me from Lux'ry, gracious heav'n! I pray'd,
That Want's drear haunts my steps may ne'er invade.
British Chronicle.

THE HAPPY MAN.

By day no rankling cares assail

My peaceful, calm, contented breast; By night my slumbers never fail

Of welcome rest.

Soon as the sun with orient beams

Gilds the fair chambers of the morn,

Musing, I trace the winding streams

That part the lawn.

Around me nature fills the scene

With boundless plenty and delight,

And touch'd with joy sincere, serene,

I bless the sight.

I bless the kind creating pow'r,
Exerted thus for frail mankind;
At whose command descends the show'r,

And blows the wind.

Happy the man, who, thus at ease,

Content with that which nature gives;

Him guilty terrors never seize,

He truly lives.

British Chronicle.

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