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Then whither halt thou stray'd,

Dear fympathetick maid?.
For, ah! no fleep my weeping eyes shall close,
No peaceful couch my weary limbs repose,

Till thy lov'd form before my fight appears,
Till thy lov'd voice augments, then dries my tears.

Say, dost thou fit beneath the swelling tide,
Where hostile navies in proud splendor ride,

And hear th’embattled squadrons join :
While, fiercely thundering thro’ the line,

Britannia's heroes meet the foe,

And plunge them in the depths below;
Where, as their mangled corses rove

In Neptune's now-empurpled feat,
They deeper dye the coral grove

That decks the angry God's retreat?

There dost thou sit, and with faft-falling tears

Lament the hapless brave,

Doom'd to a wat’ry grave,
While mad ambition Gallia’s sceptre bears ;

And, by her vile intrigues,

Wealth, power, and folly, leagues,
To aid each black design her policy conceives :

Then, tempter-like, she blames

The rage herself inflames;
And, as her interest prompts, the dup'd allies the leaves ?

Or, rather, Goddess, say,

Doft thou not mournful stray,
Confin'd beyond th' Atlantick tide;

Where her curs'd arts have torn,

Ah! never to return!
Millions of children from a parent's fide!

While,

While, in the conflict dire

That ftains the guilty land,
The age-enfeebled fire

Falls, by his offspring's hand:
And e'en parental fondness, that but late

His youthful darling prefs'd

To his enraptur'd breaft,
Amidst the general madness, chang'd to hate,

Seeks, in the cruel fight,

Him once his fole delight;
And justice deeming the relentless blow,
In spite of nature, lays his offspring low?

Alas! in scenes like these,

Source of perpetual tears;
Vain is the hope of ease,

For many weeping years!
Friends, brothers, lovers, fathers, husbands flain,

The ever-streaming eyes

Of their dear kindred ties
O’erwhelming grief will cease alone to drain,
When Death Thall kindly end their being with their pain,

Sheathe, fheathe the murderous blade, distracted men,

Nor rafhly urge the defolating foe;
Drive Civil Discord to her loathsome den,

And cease the hated blast of war to blow!
Are there not ills enough that spring from private woe?

-Bless'd in connubial love, the happiest pair

In friends, in fortune bless'd!

Enraptur'd as they press'd
Seven lovely infants in their circling arms,

And fondly dwelt on all their little charms;
Parental love still fedulous to trace

The kindred features of each cherub face Seem'd-did they not more than seem--Heaven's most peculiar care?

Yet,

A 2

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Yet, in a moment, ló! the flames ascend,

Where, wrapt in fleep, their deareft treasure lies;
And while a mother's shrieks the concave rend,

Descending angels bear them to the fkies,

The absent father but too foon returns ;
Too soon, from weeping friends, the dreadful story learns ;
Depriv'd of fenfe, all motionless he stands,

And fondly deems

He only dreams;
Then, as returning reason fills his soul,

Sudden he starts, as when loud thunders roll,
And lifts his speaking eyes, and clasps his trembling hands,

Vain is the pow'r of language, to express
The mother's pangs, the father's deep distress:
A nation weeps the unmatch'd private woe,
And swift from royal eyes the drops of pity flow,

Alas! no stranger hears

The melancholy tale,

But down his visage pale

Fast fall the chacing tears-
E'en tho' a parent's bliss he never knew;
Or, knowing, never bade one smiling babe adiey.

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Cease, busy memory, cease!

Spare the heart-rending groan!

To heal their wounded peace,
Whose poignant griefs too long remain'd unsung,
The mournful harp, at friendship's call, I ftrung,

And not to wake my own!

And shall these eyes, that view'd the fever's flame
Shrink day by day a first-born darling's frame;

That saw, convuls'd, a second infant lie;
Recal the deadly scenes, and still continue dry!

Tho?

Tho' countless fighs the tortuş'd bofom heave,
Tho'countless tears the unclos'd orbits leave;
Time, the great foother of the human breaft,

Persuades, at length, whatever is, is best,'
And gives the bosom peace, the weary eye-lids rest.

'Tis his to heal the agonizing smart
That long has rack'd each hapless parent's heart;
By means unknown a tranquil calm to give,
And bid the drooping mourners seek to live.

The embryo infant now the mother bears,

(So Heaven decrees)

Shall bring them ease,
And smoothe the path of their declining years.

But, ah! what sufferers, in this mortal state,

Can ever hope to know

No interval of woe?
And leaft, where most they've felt th' afflictive hand of fate.

Then grieve not if th' Almighty has ordain'd,
Their deeply suffering hearts shall ftill be pain'd;
As fond remembrance heaves th’unbidden figh,

As starts the gushing flood to either eye,
When their new pledge fits prattling on their knees,
And some forgotten charm sad recollection fees!

Yet, as the soft distress they turn to hide,
And want of memory, want of feeling chide,

Their lovely, smiling boy,

Shall bring them back to joy; And kind Religion, ever prompt to save, Claiming their gratitude for what they have, Shall bid them smite their pensive breasts, and say, Thoy, LORD, HAST GIVEN—ANDTHOU HAST TAKEN AWAY!'

AN

AN IMITATION FROM THE SPECTATOR,

BY MR. LLOYD.

A ;

Month hath roll'd it's lazy hours away,

Since Delia's presence bless'd her longing fwain; How could he brook the sluggish Time's delay,

What charm could soften such an age of pain ?

One fond reflection still his bosom chear'd,

And sooth'd the torments of a lover's care; 'Twas, that for Delia's self the bower he rear'd,

And fancy plac'd the nymph already there.

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*O come, dear maid! and, with a gentle smile,

Such as lights up my lovely fair-one's face,
Survey the product of thy shepherd's toil,

Nor rob the villa of the villa's

grace.

• Whate'er improvements strike thy curious fight,

Thy taste hath formidlet me not call it mine, • Since, when I muse on thee, and feed delight,

* I form no thought that is not wholly thine.

Th’apartments destin'd for my charmer's use,

(For love in trifles is conspicuous Mewn)
Can scarce an object to thy view produce,
• But bears the dear resemblance of thine own.

And trust me, love, I could almost believe

• This little spot the mansion of my fair;
But that, awak'd from fancy's dreams, I grieve
: To find it's proper owner is not there.

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