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VI.

The keenness of the world hath torn
The heart which opens to its blast;
Despised, neglected, and forlorn,
Sinks the wretch in death at last."

NUMBER 5.-SONG.

I.

How stern are the woes of the desolate mourner, As he bends in still grief o'er the hallowed

bier,

As enanguished he turns from the laugh of the

scorner,

And drops, to perfection's remembrance, a

tear;

When floods of despair down his pale cheek are streaming,

When no blissful hope on his bosom is beam

ing,

Or, if lulled for a while, soon he starts from his dreaming,

And finds torn the soft ties to affection so

dear.

II.

Ah! when shall day dawn on the night of the

grave,

Or summer succeed to the winter of death? Rest awhile, hapless victim, and Heaven will

save

The spirit, that faded away with the breath. Eternity points in its amaranth bower, Where no clouds of fate o'er the sweet prospect

lower,

Unspeakable pleasure, of goodness the dower, When woes fade away like the mist of the heath.

NUMBER 6.-SONG.

I.

АH! faint are her limbs, and her footstep is weary,

Yet far must the desolate wanderer roam; Though the tempest is stern, and the mountain is dreary,

She must quit at deep midnight her pitiless home.

I see her swift foot dash the dew from the

whortle,

As she rapidly hastes to the green grove of myrtle;

And I hear, as she wraps round her figure the kirtle,

"Stay thy boat on the lake,-dearest Henry, I come."

II.

High swelled in her bosom the throb of affec

tion,

As lightly her form bounded over the lea, And arose in her mind every dear recollection; "I come, dearest Henry, and wait but for thee."

How sad, when dear hope every sorrow is soothing,

When sympathy's swell the soft bosom is moving,

And the mind the mild joys of affection is proving,

Is the stern voice of fate that bids happiness

flee!

III.

Oh! dark lowered the clouds on that horrible

eve,

And the moon dimly gleamed through the tempested air;

Oh! how could fond visions such softness deceive?

Oh! how could false hope rend a bosom so fair?

Thy love's pallid corse the wild surges are laving,

O'er his form the fierce swell of the tempest is raving;

But, fear not, parting spirit; thy goodness is

saving,

In eternity's bowers, a seat for thee there.

POSTHUMOUS FRAGMENTS

OF

MARGARET NICHOLSON;

BEING POEMS FOUND AMONGST THE PAPERS OF THAT NOTED FEMALE WHO ATTEMPTED THE LIFE OF THE KING IN 1786.

EDITED BY

JOHN FITZVICTOR.

ADVERTIZEMENT.

THE energy and native genius of these Fragments, must be the only apology which the Editor can make for thus intruding them on the Public Notice. The FIRST I found with no title, and have left it 80. It is intimately connected with the dearest interests of universal happiness; and, much as we may deplore the fatal and enthusiastic tendency which the ideas of this poor female had acquired, we cannot fail to pay the tribute of unequivocal regret to the departed memory of genius, which, had it been rightly organized, would have made that intellect, which has since become the victim of frenzy and despair, a most brilliant ornament to society.

In case the sale of these Fragments evinces that the Public have any curiosity to be presented with a more copious collection of my unfortunate Aunt's Poems, I have other papers in my possession,

which shall, in that case, be subjected to their notice. It may be supposed they require much arrangement; but I send the following to the press in the same state in which they came into my possession.

J. F.

POSTHUMOUS FRAGMENTS.

AMBITION, power, and avarice, now have hurled
Death, fate, and ruin, on a bleeding world.
See! on yon heath what countless victims lie,
Hark! what loud shrieks ascend through yonder

sky;

Tell then the cause, 'tis sure the avenger's rage Has swept these myriads from life's crowded

stage:

Hark to that groan, an anguished hero dies,
He shudders in death's latest agonies;
Yet does a fleeting hectic flush his cheek,
Yet does his parting breath essay to speak-10
"Oh God! my wife, my children-Monarch

thou

"For whose support this fainting frame lies low;

"For whose support in distant lands I bleed,

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Let his friends' welfare be the warrior's meed. He hears me not-ah! no-kings cannot hear, "For passion's voice has dulled their listless

ear.

"To thee, then, mighty God, I lift my moan, "Thou wilt not scorn a suppliant's anguished.

groan.

"Oh! now I die-but still is death's fierce

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