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With vacant reckless smile she bore
Her tongue, unable to display
No sense its rude sounds could convey
. But to parental instinct kind.
Yet close to ev'ry human form
And she was fond and proud to own
And o'er the mutilated page
And e'er the scholar's task was said,
And many a truant boy would seek
And e'en the master's solemn voice
Each heart humane could freely love.
That even infants would remove.
But her prime joy was still to be
Rapt in wild transports when they sung,
Blush yel whose form without a heart
Poor guileless thing! just eighteen years
Then, lest thou e'er shouldst want these cares,
Full many a watchful eye of love
Poor guileless thing! forgot by men,
'Tis all thou art to mortal ken,
For what a burst of mind shall glow
Thou, who on earth couldst nothing know,
Oh, could thy spirit teach us now,
The value of a blameless life
Full many a scorner might discern.
Yes! they might learn, who waste their time,
What to be spotless pure within.
Go then, and seek her humble grave,
And as the gale the grass shall wave,
“'Tis not the measure of your powers
“To which th' eternal meed is given:
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
When dawning Reason shed her ray benign,
For who, alas! can tell thy secret worth 2 What shining store of virtues might appear 2 The bosom, now defenceless on the earth, Perhaps was gen’rous, grateful, and sincere.
The lips, that knew no friend to bid farewell, Might once the noblest sentiments express; The wretched head, that unsupported fell, Might once be turn'd to stories of distress.
Some vile deceiver (practis'd to betray)
Might win thy easy heart, destroy thy fame, Then cast thee like a loathsome weed 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,
From sin at length and sorrow thou art free ; :
Thy debt to virtue it is amply paid,
And weeping Pity pays her debt to thee.
Describing the Sorrow of an ingenuous Mind, on the melancholy Event of a licentious Amour. Shenstone.
Why mourns my friend ? why weeps his downcast eye?
That eye where mirth, where fancy us’d to
shine? Thy chearful meads reprove that swelling sigh; Spring ne'er enamel'd fairer meads than thine.
Art thou not lodg'd in Fortune's warm embrace ’
Blest in thy song, and blest in ev'ry grace,
Damon, said he, thy partial praise restrain;
Alas! his very praise awakes my pain,
For oh! that nature on my birth had frown'd / .
Then had my bosom 'scap'd this fatai wound,
But, led by Fortune's hand, her darling child,
In Fortune's train the siren Flatt'ry smil'd,