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He (wore by Gad it was an odd thing,
The purfe-proud coxcomb took the hint,
There with fome bucks he drank about,
"Well done, (fays Jack, a buck of York,) "You go thro' ftitch, Sir, with your work."
The name of flitch was fuch reproach,
By what ftrange means they knew his trade:
BY MISS ELIZA RYVES.
A New-fallen lamb, as mild Emmeline paft,
How it fhiver'd and shrunk from the merciless blaft, Then fell all benumb'd with the cold.
She rais'd it, and touch'd by the innocent's fate,
But the tender relief was afforded too late,
The moralift then, as the corfe fhe refign'd,
"Too tender, like thee, the rude shock to fuftain,
SONNET. TO SLEEP.
BY CHARLOTTE SMITH.
NOME, balmy Sleep! tir'd nature's soft refort!
And bid gay dreams, from Morpheus' airy court,
On his hard bed the peasant throws him down;
Enjoys thee more than he who wears a crown. Clafp'd in her faithful fhepherd's guardian arms, Well may the village girl fweet flumbers prove; And they, O gentle Sleep!-ftill tafte thy charms, Who wake to labour, liberty, and love.
But ftill thy opiate aid doft thou deny,
To calm the anxious breast, to close the ftreaming eye.
BY THE SAME.
ARK gath'ring clouds involve the threat'ning skies, of th'
Deep hollow murmurs from the cliffs arife;
They come—the Spirits of the Tempest come!
Oh! may fuch terrors mark th' approaching night,
Loud, and more loud, ye foaming billows, burft!
Where ruthless Av'rice finds a quiet grave!'
Thus with clafp'd hands, wild looks, and ftreaming hair, While fhrieks of horror broke her trembling speech,
Á wretched maid-the victim of despair,
Survey'd the threat'ning ftorm and defart beach. Then to the tomb, where now the father flept, Whose rugged nature bade her forrows flow, Frantic fhe turn'd-and beat her breaft and wept, Invoking vengeance on the duft below.
'Lo! rifing there above each humbler heap,
Yon cypher'd ftones his name and wealth relate,
• Who gave his fon-remorfelefs-to the deep, 'While I, his living victim, curse my fate. 'Oh! my loft love! no tomb is plac'd for thee, 'That may to ftrangers' eyes thy worth impart; 'Thou haft no grave, but in the ftormy sea,
'And no memorial, but this breaking heart.
'Forth to the world, a widow'd wand'rer driv'n, I pour to winds and waves th' unheeded tear, Try with vain efforts to submit to heav'n,
And fruitless call on him-" who cannot hear!"
'O might I fondly clafp him once again,
While o'er my head th' infuriate billows pour, Forget in death this agonizing pain,
And feel his father's cruelty no more!
'Part, raging waters, part, and fhew beneath,
In your dread caves, his pale and mangled form, · Now, while the demons of defpair and death 'Ride on the blast, and urge the howling ftorm! 'Lo! by the light'ning's momentary blaze,
I fee him rife the whit'ning waves above, 'No longer fuch as when in happier days 'He gave th' enchanted hours-to me and love. Such, as when daring the enchafed sea, And courting dang'rous toil, he often faid, That ev'ry peril one soft smile from me, 'One figh of speechless tenderness o'erpaid. 'But dead, disfigur'd, while between the roar
Of the loud wave his accents pierce mine ear, 'And seem to fay-Ah! wretch, delay no more, 'But come, unhappy mourner, meet me here.
Yet, pow'rful fancy, bid the phantom stay, Still let me hear him!-'Tis already past; • Along the waves his fhadow glides away;
I lose his voice amidst the deaf'ning blaft.
Ah! wild illufion, born of frantic pain,
• He hears not, comes not from his wat❜ry bed; My tears, my anguifh, my defpair are vain,
Th' infatiate ocean gives not up its dead.
‹ 'Tis not his voice! Hark! the deep thunders roll; Upheaves the ground; the rocky barriers fail; Approach, ye horrors that delight my foul,
Defpair, and Death, and Defolation, hail!'
The ocean hears-th' embodied waters come,
SONNET. TO A POOR BOY.
BY MR. ANDERSON.
EEK Child I diftrefs,
MfFor I have learn'd to feel another's woe;
Yes, my heart pants to make thy forrow lefs,
Ye, whom nor cold nor pining hunger prefs,
Tho' never thou enjoy'ft the plenteous meal!
Tho' tatter'd thy coarfe weeds-yet, poor forlorn! Sooner thy keenest forrows would I feel,
Than be the Son of WEALTH that mocks thy woes with fcorn.