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With vacant reckless smile she bore
Patient, the cruel scorner's jest,
it o'ery And turn it pointless from her breast.
Her tongue, unable to display
The unform'd chaos of her mind, No sense its rude sounds could convey
But to parental instinct kind.
Yet close to ev'ry human form
Clings Imitation's mimic power, And she was fond and proud to own
The school time's regulated hour.. And o'er the mutilated page
Mutter'd the mimic lesson's tone, And e'er the scholar's task was said,
Brought ever and anon her own.. And many a truant boy would seek
And drag reluctant to his place, And e'en the master's solemn voice
Would mock with grave and apt grimaces Each heart humane could freely love.
A nature so estrang'd from wrong, That even infants would remove
Her from the passing trav'ller's tongue.
Where holy congregations bow,
And when they pray'd would bend her low..
Oh Nature ! wheresoe'er thou art,
Some latent worship still is there; Blush ye! whose form without a heart
The ideot's plea can never share.
Poor guileless thing! just eighteen years
Parental cares had rear'd alone, Then, lest thou e'er shouldst want these cares,
Heaven took thee, spotless, to its own. Full many a watchful
of love Thy sickness and thy death did cheer, And Reason, while she joys, approves
The instinct of a parent's tear. Poor guileless thing ! forgot by men,
The heaving turf directs to thee ; 'Tis all thou art to mortal ken,
But Faith beyond the tomb can see. For what a burst of mind shall glow
When, disencumber'd from this clod, Thou, who on earth couldst nothing know,
Shalt rise to comprehend thy God! Oh, could thy spirit teach us now,
Full many a truth the gay might learn, The value of a blameless life
Full many a scorner might discern. Yes! they might learn, who waste their time,
What it would be to know no sin, They who pollute the soul's sweet prime,
What to be spotless pure within.
Go then, and seek her humble grave,
All ye wħo sport in Folly's ray,
List to a voice that seems to say, -
" To which th' eternal meed is given :
“Shall forfeit or secure you heaven.”
ON A YOUNG WOMAN FOUND DEAD IN
ST. GEORGE's FIELDS.--Miss M. Young,
UNHAPPY daughter of distress and woe,
Tho' now, alas! abandon'd and unknown,
For thee, perhaps, they watch’d, and toil'd, and
pray'd, O'er thy sweet innocence with rapture hung, And well they thought their tend'rest care repaid To hear the artless music of thy tongue !
When dawning Reason shed her ray benign,
away, The sport of fortune, and the child of shame
Poor wanderer! perhaps thou could'st not find
Then from the world, abandon'd and forlorn,
Whate'er has been thy lot, lamented shade,
Describing the Sorrow of an ingenuous Mind, on the melancholy Event of a licentious Amour.
Why mourns my friend'? why weeps his down
cast eye? Thateyê where mirth, where fancy usd.co
shine? Thy chearful meads reprove that swelling sigh ;.
Spring ne'er enamel'd fairer meads than thine. Art thou not lodgid in Fortune's warm embrace?
Wert thou not form'd by Nature's partial care Blest in thy song, and blest in ev'ry grace,
That wins the friend, or that enchants the fair
Damon, said he, thy partial praise restrain;
Not Damon's friendship can my peace restore ; Alas! his very praise awakes my pain,
And my poor wounded bosom bleeds the more.. For oh! that nature on my birth had frown'd!
Or fortune fix'd me to some lowly cell! Then had my bosom 'scap'd this fatal wound,
Nor had I bid these vernal sweets farewell.
But, led by Fortune's hand, her darling child,
My youth her vain licentious bliss admir'd; In Fortune's train the sisen Flatt'ry smil'da
And rashly hallow'd all her queen inspir'da