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With vacant reckless smile she bore
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
Her from the passing trav'ller's tongues
But her prime joy was still to be
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
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,
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 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,
Go then, and seek her humble grave,
"'Tis not the measure of
"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,
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
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.
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!
But, led by Fortune's hand, her darling child,.
And rashly hallow'd all her queen inspir'd.