Then whither haft thou ftray'd,

Dear fympathetick maid?.

For, ah! no fleep my weeping eyes fhall clofe,
No peaceful couch my weary limbs repose,
Till thy lov'd form before my fight appears,
Till thy lov'd voice augments, then dries my tears.

Say, doft thou fit beneath the fwelling tide,
Where hoftile navies in proud fplendor ride,
And hear th' embattled fquadrons join:
While, fiercely thundering thro' the line,
Britannia's heroes meet the foe,

And plunge them in the depths below;
Where, as their mangled corfes rove
In Neptune's now-empurpled feat,
They deeper dye the coral grove

That decks the angry God's retreat?

There doft thou fit, and with faft-falling tears
Lament the hapless brave,

Doom'd to a watʼry grave,

While mad ambition Gallia's fceptre bears;
And, by her vile intrigues,

Wealth, power, and folly, leagues,

To aid each black defign her policy conceives :
Then, tempter-like, she blames

The rage herself inflames;

And, as her intereft prompts, the dup'd allies fhe leaves?

Or, rather, Goddess, fay,

Doft thou not mournful stray,

Confin'd beyond th' Atlantick tide;
Where her curs'd arts have torn,

Ah! never to return!

Millions of children from a parent's fide!

While, in the conflict dire

That ftains the guilty land,
The age-enfeebled fire

Falls by his offspring's hand:

And e'en parental fondnefs, that but late
His youthful darling prefs'd

To his enraptur'd breast,

Amidst the general madness, chang'd to hate,
Seeks, in the cruel fight,

Him once his fole delight;

And juftice deeming the relentlefs blow,
In spite of nature, lays his offspring low?

Alas! in fcenes like thefe,

Source of perpetual tears;
Vain is the hope of ease,

For many weeping years!

Friends, brothers, lovers, fathers, hufbands flain,
The ever-ftreaming eyes

Of their dear kindred ties

O'erwhelming grief will ceafe alone to drain,

When Death shall kindly end their being with their pain.

Sheathe, fheathe the murderous blade, distracted men,
Nor rafhly urge the defolating foe;

Drive Civil Discord to her loathfome den,

And cease the hated blast of war to blow!

Are there not ills enough that fpring from private woe?

-Blefs'd in connubial love, the happiest pair-
In friends, in fortune blefs'd!

Enraptur'd as they prefs'd

Seven lovely infants in their circling arms,
And fondly dwelt on all their little charms;

Parental love ftill fedulous to trace

The kindred features of each cherub face

Seem'd did they not more than feem-Heaven's moft peculiar care?

POETRY

Yet, in a moment, ló! the flames ascend,
Where, wrapt in fleep, their dearest treasure lies
And while a mother's fhrieks the concave rend,
Defcending angels bear them to the fkies.

The abfent father but too foon returns ;

Too foon, from weeping friends, the dreadful ftory learns ;
Depriv'd of fenfe, all motionless he stands,
And fondly deems

He only dreams;

Then, as returning reason fills his foul,
Sudden he starts, as when loud thunders roll,
And lifts his fpeaking eyes, and clafps his trembling hands,

Vain is the pow'r of language, to exprefs
The mother's pangs, the father's deep distress:
A nation weeps the unmatch'd private woe,
And swift from royal eyes the drops of pity flow,

Alas! no ftranger hears

The melancholy tale,
But down his visage pale

Fast fall the chacing tears

E'en tho' a parent's blifs he never knew;
Or, knowing, never bade one smiling babe adieu.

Cease, bufy memory, cease!

Spare the heart-rending groan!
To heal their wounded peace,

Whofe poignant griefs too long remain'd unfung,
The mournful harp, at friendship's call, I ftrung,
And not to wake my own!

And shall these eyes, that view'd the fever's flame
Shrink day by day a firft-born darling's frame;
That faw, convuls'd, a second infant lie;
Recal the deadly fcenes, and ftill continue dry!

The?

Tho' countless fighs the tortur'd bosom heave,
Tho' countless tears the unclos'd orbits leave;
Time, the great foother of the human breast,
Perfuades, at length, whatever is, is best,'
And gives the bofom peace, the weary eye-lids reft.
'Tis his to heal the agonizing fmart

That long has rack'd each hapless parent's heart;
By means unknown a tranquil calm to give,
And bid the drooping mourners feek to live.

The embryo infant now the mother bears,
(So Heaven decrees)

Shall bring them eafe,

And fmoothe the path of their declining years.

But, ah! what fufferers, in this mortal ftate,
Can ever hope to know

No interval of woe?

And leaft, where most they've felt th' afflictive hand of fate.

Then grieve not if th' Almighty has ordain'd,
Their deeply fuffering hearts shall still be pain'd;
As fond remembrance heaves th' unbidden figh,
As ftarts the gufhing flood to either eye,

When their new pledge fits prattling on their knees,
And fome forgotten charm fad recollection fees!

Yet, as the foft distress they turn to hide,
And want of memory, want of feeling chide,
Their lovely, fmiling boy,

Shall bring them back to joy;

And kind Religion, ever prompt to save,'

Claiming their gratitude for what they have,

Shall bid them fmite their penfive breafts, and fay,

THOU, LORD, HAST GIVEN AND THOU HAST TAKEN AWAY!'

AN

AN IMITATION FROM THE SPECTATOR.

A

BY MR. LLOYD.

Month hath roll'd it's lazy hours away,

Since Delia's prefence blefs'd her longing fwain;

How could he brook the fluggish Time's delay,
What charm could foften fuch an age of pain?

One fond reflection ftill his bofom chear'd,
And footh'd the torments of a lover's care;
'Twas, that for Delia's self the bower he rear'd,
And fancy plac'd the nymph already there.

O come, dear maid! and, with a gentle fmile,
Such as lights up my lovely fair-one's face,
Survey the product of thy fhepherd's toil,
• Nor rob the villa of the villa's grace.

• Whate'er improvements ftrike thy curious fight,
Thy taste hath form'd-let me not call it mine,
Since, when I mufe on thee, and feed delight,
I form no thought that is not wholly thine.

Th' apartments deftin'd for my charmer's use,
(For love in trifles is confpicuous fhewn)

Can scarce an object to thy view produce,

But bears the dear refemblance of thine own.

And trust me, love, I could almost believe

This little spot the manfion of my fair;
But that, awak'd from fancy's dreams, I grieve

To find it's proper owner is not there.

- Oh!