With vacant reckless smile she bore
Patient, the cruel scorner's jest,
With unfix'd gaze could pass it o'er,
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 tongues

But her prime joy was still to be
Where holy congregations bow,
Rapt in wild transports when they sung,
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 eye 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 who sport in Folly's ray,
And as the gale the grass shall wave,
List to a voice that seems to say,―

"'Tis not the measure of
your powers
"To which th' eternal meed is given :
" "Tis wasted or improved hours

"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,
Whate'er thy suff'rings, and whoe'er thou art,
For thee the tear of charity shall flow,
Warm from the purest fountain of the heart.

Tho' now, alas! abandon'd and unknown,
A parent once beheld thee with delight;
The darling of a father's heart alone,
Or the lov'd object of a mother's sight!

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,
And all thy excellence became reveal'd,
How did they joy to see thy virtues shine,
Or hear thy praise with rapture ill-conceal'd!

For who, alas! can tell thy secret worth? What shining store of virtues might appear? 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
One liberal hand the slender gift to spare:
Insatiate avarice the soul confin'd,
Or timid prudence disbeliev'd thy prayer!

Then from the world, abandon'd and forlorn,
Careless of life, and hopeless of relief,
Thine agonizing soul retir'd to mourn,
And breathe its last in unmolested grief!!

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..

JESSY.

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?

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 siren Flatt'ry smil'd,

And rashly hallow'd all her queen inspir'd.