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When the poor trav'ller treads the plain,
All dubious of his way,

And crawls with night-increasing pain,
And dreads the parting day:

When poverty, in vile attire,

Shrinks from the biting blast,
Or hovers o'er the pigmy fire,
And fears it will not laft:

When the fond mother hugs her child
Still closer to her breast,
And the poor infant, froft-beguil'd,
Scarce feels that it is preft:

Then let the bounteous hand extend

Its bleffings to the poor,

Nor fpurn the wretched, while they bend
All fuppliant at your
door.

TO A LADY WITH A RING.

AUTHOR UNKNOWN.

"T So fixteen years ago I faid

HEE, Mary, with this ring I wed:"

Behold another ring! "For what?”
To wed thee o'er again-why not?
With that first ring I marry'd youth,
Grace, beauty, innocence, and truth;
Tafte long admir'd; fenfe long rever'd;
And all my Molly then appear'd.

If fhe, by merit fince disclos'd,
Prov'd twice the woman I fuppos'd,
I plead that doubled merit now,
To justify a double vow.

Here then, to-day, (with faith as fure,
With ardour as intenfe and pure,
As when amidst the rights divine,
I took thy troth, and plighted mine,)

To thee, fweet girl, my fecond ring
A token and a pledge I bring;
With this I wed, till death us part,
Thy riper virtues to my heart;
Those virtues which, before untry'd,
The wife has added to the bride;
Thofe virtues, whofe progreffive claim,
Endearing wedlock's very name,
My foul enjoys, my fong approves,
For confcience' fake as well as love's.
For what? They fhew me hour by hour,
Honour's high thought, affection's pow'r,
Difcretion's deed, found judgment's fentence;
And teach me all things but-REPENTANCE!

TO LOVE.

ANONYMOUS.

EACH me, Love, fince thy torments no precepts can

TEA Cure,

Since reflection and reafon deny me relief;

O teach me thy fcorn and thy wrongs to endure,
While the balm of refentment fhall folace my grief.
Let my fighs never heave, let my tears never flow,
Let the fmile of contempt the stern victor defy;
For the tear has a charm which no art can bestow,
And the language of love is the foul-breathing figh.
Let me fhun the proud defpot, who caufes my care,
Left the torture I fuffer fhould feed her difdain,
For my tyrant delights in the pang of defpair,
And the found which the loves is the deep groan of pain.
I will traverse the defart, climb mountains untrod,

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Where reflection shall fadden with legions of woes; I will cool my scorch'd brain on the dew-moiften'd fod, While around my torn bofom the loud tempeft blows. Yet the mild breath of morning fhall bid the form fly, And the fun's glowing wreath fhall encircle the fteep, But my bofom fhall never forget the deep figh,

Nor my eyes lose the vifion that prompts them to weep!

Then, O! where fhall I wander, in search of repose, Where explore that oblivion which calms the wrung breaft,

Since the lover finds forrow wherever he goes,

And the world has, for paffion, no pillow of reft? To the grave! where the tyrant is robb'd of his pow'r, Where complainings fhall cease, for no anguifh is there; While the breathing destroyer fhall live a fhort hour, Till the pang of remorse ends the reign of despair.

THE UNFORTUNATE FAIR.

BY ROBERT SOUTHEY.

HARD by the road where, on that little mound,.
The high grafs ruftles to the paffing breeze,
The child of mis'ry refts her head in peace.
Pause there in fadnefs. That unhallow'd ground
Infhrines what once was Ifabel. Sleep on,

Sleep on, poor outcaft!-Lovely was thy cheek,
And thy mild eye was eloquent to fpeak
The foul of pity. Pale, and woe-begone,
Soon did thy fair cheek fade, and thine eye weep,
The tear of anguish for the babe unborn,
The helpless heir of poverty and fcorn.
She drank the draught that chill'd the foul to fleep.
I paufe, and wipe the big drop from mine eye,
Whilst the proud Levite fcowls, and passes by.

THE WISH.

ANONYMOUS.

IVE me, kind Heav'n the middle ftate,

G Not meanly poor, nor proudly great!

I afk no wealth, no pow'r I crave;
Let me not have, nor be a flave:
O'er no man let me covet rule;
Let no man e'er make me his tool.

The duty I to others owe,
Teach thou my rebel heart to know,
Yet let me never anxious be,
For duty others owe to me:
But think, ere I too much expect,
The higher duties I neglect.

Blefs me with health, to earn my food,
With wisdom to difcern what's good.
Lefs let me others' errors mind,
Than those within myself I find;
Averse to make their foibles known,
As careful to conceal my own:
And left I do another wrong,
Reftrain the licence of my tongue.

The ills, as mortal, I muft fhare,
Make me, without repining, bear:
Convinc'd, the finful caufe is mine,
The merciful chaftisement thine.
On every fellow-mortal's woe,
Let me a ready tear bestow;
Nor be fo much of need afraid,
As to with-hold little aid,

my

When weeping want, with trembling hand,
Makes, in thy name, its meek demand.
When innocence gives laughter birth,
Let me not check the harmless mirth;
But blefs the voice, that kindly cries
• Be merry mortals, and be wife??
O gracious Heav'n, thefe bleffings give!
I care not where, but how, I live!

THE BRITISH

POETICAL MISCELLANY.

NOVEM

THE FEMALE EXILE.

BY CHARLOTTE SMITH.

JOVEMBER's chill blast on the rough beach is howling,

The furge breaks afar, and then foams to the shore, Dark clouds o'er the fea gather heavy and fcowling, And the white cliffs re-echo the wild wintry roar. Beneath that chalk rock, a fair ftranger, reclining, Has found on damp fea-weed a cold lonely feat; Her eyes fill'd with tears, and her heart with repining, She starts at the billows that burft at her feet.

There, day after day, with an anxious heart heaving,
She watches the waves, where they mingle with air,
For the fail, which, alas! all her fond hopes deceiving,
May bring only tidings to add to her care.

Loose ftream to wild winds thofe fair flowing treffes,
Once woven with garlands of gay fummer flow'rs;
Her drefs unregarded befpeaks her diftreffes,

And beauty is blighted by grief's heavy hours.

Her innocent children, unconfcious of forrow,
To feek the glofs'd fhell, or the crimson weed, fray;
Amus'd with the prefent, they heed not to-morrow,
Nor think of the ftorm that is gath'ring to-day.

The gilt fairy fhip, with its ribbon-fail fpreading,
They launch on the falt pool the tide left behind;
Ah! victims-for whom their fad mother is dreading
The multiply'd misʼries that wait on mankind.

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