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But what adventures more befel 'em,
The Muse hath now no time to tell 'em :
How Johnny wheedled, threaten'd, fawn'd,
Till Phillis all her trinkets pawn'd;
How oft the broke her marriage-vows,
In kindness, to maintain her spouse,
Till swains unwholsome spoil'd the trade;
For now the furgeons must be paid,
To whom those perquifites are gone,
In Chriftian juftice due to John.
When food and raiment now grew scarce,
Fate put a period to the farce;
And with exact poetick juftice-
For John is landlord, Phillis hostess:
They keep at Staines the Old Blue Boar,

Are cat and dog, and rogue and whore.

ELE GY,

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR

WHEN THE RIGHTS OF SEPULTURE WERE SO FREQUENTLY VIOLATED.

BY W. SHENSTONE, ESQ.

AY, gentle Sleep! that lov'ft the gloom of night;

SAY,

Parent of dreams! thou great magician! fay,

Whence my late vifion thus endures the light,
Thus haunts my fancy thro' the glare of day.

The filent moon had fcal'd the vaulted fkies,
And anxious care refign'd my limbs to rest;
A sudden luftre ftruck my wond'ring eyes,
And Silvia stood before my couch confefs'd.

Ah! not the nymph, fo blooming and fo gay,
That led the dance beneath the feftive fhade;
But fhe that, in the morning of her day,
Entomb'd beneath the grass-green fod was laid.

No

No more her eyes their wonted radiance caft;
No more her breast inspir'd the lover's flame;
No more her cheek the Paftan rose surpass'd;
Yet feem'd her lip's ethereal fmile the fame.

Nor fuch her hair, as deck'd her living face;
Nor fuch her voice, as charm'd the lift'ning crowd
Nor fuch her drefs, as heighten'd ev'ry, grace;
Alas! all vanish'd for the mournful shroud!

Yet feem'd her lip's ethereal charm the same ;
That dear distinction ev'ry doubt remov'd :
Perish the lover, whofe imperfect flame
Forgets one feature of the nymph he lov'd!

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Damon,' fhe faid,

mine hour allotted flies;

Oh! do not wafte it with a fruitless tear!

Tho' griev'd to fee thy Silvia's pale disguise;

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So may thy Mufe with virtuous fame be blefs'd!
So be thy love with mutual love repaid!

So may thy bones in facred filence reft

Faft by the reliques of fome happier maid!

Thou know'ft how, ling'ring on a distant fhore,
Difeafe invidious nipp'd my flow'ry prime;

And, oh! what pangs my tender bofom tore,

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To think I ne'er muft view my native clime!

No friend was near to raise my drooping head,
No dear companion wept to see me die :
Lodge me within my native foil," I faid,
"There my fond parents honour'd reliques lie.

• Tho'

"Tho' now debarr'd of each domeftick tear,
"Unknown, forgot, I meet the fatal blow;
"There many a friend shall grace my woeful bier,
"And many a figh fhall rife, and tear fhall flow."

Ifpoke; nor Fate forebore his trembling spoil: • Some venal mourner lent his careless aid; • And foon they bore me to my native soil, • Where my fond parents dear remains were laid.

'Twas then the youths, from ev'ry plain and grove,
'Adorn'd with mournful verfe thy Silvia's bier;
'Twas then the nymphs their votive garlands wove,
And ftrew'd the fragrance of the youthful year.

But why, alas! the tender fcene display?
'Could Damon's foot the pious path decline ?
Ah, no! 'twas Damon first attun'd his lay,
And fure no fonnet was fo dear as thine!

• Thus was I bofom'd in the peaceful grave,
*My placid ghoft no longer wept it's doom;
'When favage robbers ev'ry fanction brave,

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And with outrageous guilt defraud the tomb!

Shall my poor corfe, from hoftile realms convey'd,
'Lose the cheap portion of my native fands?
Or, in my kindred's dear embraces laid,
'Mourn the vile ravage of barbarian hands ?

Say, would thy breast no death-like torture feel,
To fee my limbs the felon's gripe obey?
To see them gafh'd beneath the daring steel?
To crowds a spectre, and to dogs a prey?

• If

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If Pæan's fons thefe horrid rites require,

If Health's fair fcience be by these refin'd; Let guilty convicts for their use expire,

And let their breathlefs corfe avail mankind.

Yet hard it feems, when Guilt's last fine is paid,
To fee the victim's corfe deny'd repofe;

Now, more fevere, the poor offenceless maid

• Dreads the dire outrage of inhuman foes.

Where is the faith of ancient Pagans fled?

• Where the fond care the wand'ring manes claim?

Nature, inftinctive, cries, " Protect the dead;

"And facred be their afhes and their fame!"

Arife, dear youth! e'en now the danger calls; • E'en now the villain fnuffs his wonted prey: See! fee! I lead thee to yon facred walls

Oh, fly to chafe these human wolves away!'

WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT

L

IN A THUNDER STORM.

BY MISS CARTER.

ET coward Guilt, with pallid Fear,

To fhelt'ring caverns fly,

And juffly dread the vengeful Fate

That thunders through the sky;

Protected by that Hand, whofe law
The threat'ning storms obey,
Intrepid Virtue fmiles fecure,

As in the blaze of day.

In

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