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I meet her ever in the cheerless cell,
The gloomy grotto and unfocial wood;
I hear her ever in the midnight bell,

The hollow gale, and hoarse-resounding flood.

This caus'd a mother's tender tears to flow,
(The fad remembrance time shall ne'er erase)
When having feal'd th' irrevocable vow,
I haften'd to receive her last embrace.

Full well the then prefag'd my wretched fate,
Th' unhappy moments of each future day;
When lock'd within this terror-fhedding grate,
My joy-deferted foul would pine away.

Yet ne'er did her maternal voice unfold
This cloister'd fcene in all its horror dreft;
, Nor did the then my trembling steps withold
When here I enter'd a reluctant guest.

Ah! could the view her only child betray'd,
And let fubmiffion o'er her love prevail?
Th' unfeeling priest why did she not upbraid?
Forbid the vow, and rend the hov❜ring veil?

Alas! fhe might not---her relentless lord

Had feal'd her lips, and chid her streaming tear; So anguish in her breast conceal'd its hoard, And all the mother funk in dumb despair.

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But thou, who own'st a father's facred name,

What act impell'd thee to this ruthless deed? What crime had forfeited my filial claim?

And giv'n (oh blasting thought!) thy heart to bleed?

If then thine injur'd child deserve thy care,

Oh haste, and bear her from this lonesome gloom! In vain----no words can footh his rigid ear; And Gallia's laws have rivetted my doom.

Ye cloifter'd fair----ye cenfure-breathing faints,
Supprefs your taunts, and learn at length to spare,
Though mid thefe holy walls I vent my plaints,
And give to forrow what is due to pray'r.

I fled not to this manfion's deep recefs
To veil the blushes of a guilty shame,
The tenor of an ill-spent life redress,
And fnatch from infamy a finking name.

Yet let me to my fate fubmiffive bow;

From fatal fymptoms if I right conceive,

This ftream, Ophelia, has not long to flow,
This voice to murmur, and this breast to heave.

Ah! when extended on th' untimely bier,

To yonder vault this form shall be convey'd, Thou'lt not refufe to fhed one grateful tear,

And breathe the requiem to my fleeting shade.

With pions footstep join the fable train,

As through the lengthening ile they take their way, A glimmering taper let thy hand sustain,

Thy foothing voice attune the funeral lay :

Behold the minister who lately gave

The facred veil, in garb of mournful hue, (More friendly office) bending o'er my grave, And fprinkling my remains with hallow'd dew:

As o'er the corfe he ftrews the rattling duft,
The fterneft heart will raise compaffion's figh:
Ev'n then, no longer to his child unjust,
The tears may trickle from a father's eye.

HYMN ON SOLITUDE.

BY THOMSON.

HAIL, mildly pleasing Solitude!
Companion of the wife and good;
But from whofe holy, piercing eye,
The herd of fools and villains fly.

Oh! how I love with thee to walk,

And listen to thy whisper'd talk,
Which innocence and truth imparts,

And melts the most obdurate hearts.

A thousand shapes you wear with ease,
And still in every shape you please.
Now wrapt in fome mysterious dream,
A lone philofopher you feem;

Now quick from hill to vale you fly,
And now you sweep the vaulted sky.
A fhepherd next, you haunt the plain,
And warble forth your oaten ftrain.
A lover now, with all the grace
Of that sweet paffion in your face:
Then, calm'd to friendship, you affume
The gentle-looking Hartford's bloom,
As, with her Mufidora, fhe
(Her Mufidora fond of thee)
Amid the long-withdrawing vale,
Awakes the rivall'd nightingale.

Thine is the balmy breath of morn,
Juft as the dew-bent rofe is born;
And while meridian fervours beat,
Thine is the woodland dumb retreat:
But chief when evening scenes decay,
And the faint landscape swims away,
Thine is the doubtful foft decline,
And that beft hour of mufing thine:

Defcending angels bless thy train,
The virtues of the fage and swain;
Plain Innocence, in white array'd,
Before thee lifts her fearless head:

Religion's beams around thee shine,

And cheer thy glooms with light divine:
About thee sports sweet Liberty;

And rapt Urania fings to thee.

Oh! let me pierce thy fecret cell,

And in thy deep receffes dwell.
Perhaps from Norwood's oak-clad hill,
When Meditation has her fill,

I just may cast my careless eyes
Where London's fpiry turrets rife,
Think of its crimes, its cares, its pain,
Then shield me in the woods again.

ODE TO SENSIBILITY.

THANKS

HANKS to thee, Nymph, whose powerful hand
From dulnefs fet me free,

Thy praises I'll for ever fing,

Sweet Senfibility.

Thy touch, fo gentle and benign,

Revives the torpid heart,

Thou pleasure canft from pain refine,

To joys new joy impart.

By thee the gaudy rainbow shows

More beauties to the eye,

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