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Mercy, fweet Heav'n! and did the pitying ftorm
Spare but for deeper ills that angel form!
Bleft had we funk unheeded in the wave,
And mine and Lucy's been one common grave.
But I am loft, a worn-out, ruin'd man,
And fiends complete what tyranny began.

Much had I heard, from men unus'd to feign, ..
Of this New World, and Freedom's gentle reign.
'Twas fam'd that here, by no proud mafter spurn'd,
The poor man ate fecure the bread he earn'd;
That verdant vales were fed by brighter ftreams
Than my own Medway, or the filver Thames;
Fields without bounds fpontaneous fruitage bore,
And peace and virtue blefs'd the favour'd fhore.
Such were the hopes which once beguil'd my care,
Hopes form'd in dreams, and bafelefs as the air.

Is this, O dire reverfe, is this the land,
Where nature fway'd, and peaceful worthies plann'd?
Where injur❜d freedom, through the world impell'd,
Her hallow'd feat, her laft asylum held?

Ye glitt❜ring towns that crown th' Atlantic deep,
Witness the change, and, as ye witness, weep.
Mourn all ye ftreams, and all ye fields deplore
Your flaughter'd fons, your verdure ftain'd with gore.

Time was, bleft time, to weeping thoufands dear,
When all that poets picture flourish'd here.
Then war was not, religion fmil'd and spread,
Arts, manners, learning, rear'd their polifh'd head;
Commerce, her fails to every breeze unfurl'd,
Pour'd on their coafts the treasures of the world.
Paft are those halcyon days. The very land
Droops a weak mourner, wither'd and unmann'd.
Brothers 'gainft brothers rife in vengeful ftrife,
The parent's weapon drinks the children's life;
Sons, leagu'd with foes, unfheath their impious fword,
And gore the nurt'ring breast they late ador'd.

How vain my fearch to find fome lowly bow'r,
Far from thofe fcenes of death, this rage for pow'r;
Some quiet fpot, conceal'd from ev'ry eye,
In which to paufe from woe, and calmly die.

No fuch retreat these boundless shades embrace,
But man with beaft divides the bloody chase.
What though fome cottage rife amid the gloom,
In vain its paftures fpring, its orchards bloom:
Far, far away the wretched owners roam,
Exiles like me, the world their only home.

Here, as I trace my melancholy way,
The prowling Indian fnuffs his wonted prey.
Ha!-fhould I meet him in his dusky round-
Late in these woods I heard his murd'rous found-
Still the deep war-hoop vibrates on mine ear,
And ftill I hear his tread, or feem to hear.
Hark, the leaves ruftle! What a fhriek was there!
'Tis he! 'tis he! his triumphs rend the air.
Hold, coward heart, I'll answer to the yell,
And chafe the murd❜rer to his gory cell.
Savage!-But, oh! I rave-o'er yonder wild,
E'en at this hour he drives my only child;
See, the dear fource and foother of my pain,
My tender daughter, drags the captive chain.

Ah, my poor Lucy! in whose face, whose breast, My long-loft Emma liv'd again confeft, Thus robb'd of thee; and ev'ry comfort fled, Soon fhall the turf infold this weary'd head; Soon fhall my fpirit reach that peaceful shore, Where bleeding friends unite, to part no more. Then fhall I ceafe to rue the fatal morn,

When firft from Auburn's vale I roam'd forlorn.

He fpoke-and, frantic with the fad review, Prone on the fhore his tott'ring limbs he threw. Life's crimson ftrings were burfling round his heart. And his torn foul was throbbing to depart; No pitying friend, no meek-ey'd ftranger near, To tend his throes or calm them with a tear. Angels of grace, your golden pinions spread, Temper the winds, and fhield his houfeless head. Let no rude founds difturb life's awful close, And guard his relics from inhuman foes. O hafte, and waft him to those radiant plains, Where fiends torment no more, and love eternal reigns.

A

On VIEWING the CORPSE of a SISTER.

FROM HURDIS'S TEARS OF AFFECTION.

H me! is this

my

Ifabel?

are these
The lips where health his odorif'rous gales
And vernal rofes fhed? Are these the balls,
Whose dew so often fell to foothe my pain,
And welcome my return, provoking ftill
The latent fympathy my looks deny'd,
Till my heart melted, and my eyes o'erflow'd?
Are these the fingers that so charm'd my ear?
Is this the hand that dwelt upon my arm

So

many fummers in the ev'ning walk?

The hand that ferv'd me with good will fo free,
Guided the pen fo fairly, and the heart
So fweetly pourtray'd on the vacant leaf?

How chang'd and how difguis'd! Dear, lovely maid!
These wafted features, and this dread attire
Deprive thee of all femblance. But for these
Eternal horrors, which thy limbs enclose,
And this thy name engraven, I fhould deem
Delufion bound me in her fubtle chain.
Whither, oh! whither is thy beauty fled.?

THE MOUSE'S PETITION.

BY MRS. BARBAULD.

OHI hear a penfive pris'ner's pray'r

For liberty that fighs;

And never let thine heart be shut
Against the wretch's cries..

For here forlorn and fad I fit,
Within the wiry grate;

And tremble at th' approaching morn,
Which brings impending fate.,

If e'er thy breaft with freedom glow'd,
And fpurn'd a tyrant's chain,

Let not thy ftrong oppreffive force
A free-born moufe detain.

O! do not ftain, with guiltless blood,
Thy hofpitable hearth;

Nor triumph that thy wiles betray'd
A prize fo little worth.

The fcatter'd gleanings of a feaft
My frugal meals fupply;
But if thine unrelenting heart
That flender boon deny,

The cheerful light, the vital air,
Are bleffings widely giv'n;
Let nature's commoners enjoy
The common gifts of heav'n.
The well-taught philofophic mind
To all compaffion gives;
Cafts round the world an equal eye,
And feels for all that lives.

If mind, as ancient fages taught,
A never-dying flame,

Still fhift through matter's varying forms,
In ev'ry form the fame.

Beware, left in the worm you crush
A brother's foul you find;
And tremble, left thy lucklefs hand
Diflodge a kindred mind.

Or, if this tranfient gleam of day
Be all of life we fhare,
Let pity plead within thy breaft,
That little all to fpare.

So may thy hofpitable board

With health and peace be crown'd; And ev'ry charm of heart-felt easet 1921 MAAN Beneath thy roof be found.

So when deftru&tion lurks unfeen,

Which men, like mice, may fhare, May fome kind angel clear thy path,

And break the hidden fnare.

THE BRITISH

POETICAL MISCELLANY.

ELEGY.

Written on the Plain of Fontenoy.

BY ANNA MATILDA.

HILL blows the blaft, and twilight's dewy hand

CHILL, ws the weft, her dulky veil away;

A deeper fhadow fteals along the land,

And nature muses at the death of day.

Near this bleak wafte no friendly manfion rears
Its walls, where mirth and focial joys resound,
But each fad object melts the foul to tears,
While horror treads the scatter'd bones around.
As thus alone and comfortless I roam,

Wet with the drizzling fhow'r, I figh fincere;
I caft a fond look tow'rds my native home,
And think what valiant Britons perish'd here.
Yes, the time was, not very far the date,

When carnage here her crimson toil began;
When nations' ftandards wav'd in threat'ning ftate,
And man the murd❜rer met the murd❜rer man.

For war is murder, though the voice of kings
Has ftil'd it juftice, ftil'd it glory too;
Yet from worfe motives fierce ambition fprings,
And there fix'd prejudice is all we view!
But fure 'tis Heav'n's immutable decree,
For thousands ev'ry age in fight to fall;
Some nat❜ral caufe prevails we cannot fee,
And that is fate which we ambition call..

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