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When the poor trav’ller treads the plain,
All dubious of his way,
And dreads the parting day:
Shrinks from the biting blast,
And fears it will not last :
Still closer to her breast,
Scarce feels that it is prest:
Its blessings to the poor,
All suppliant at your door.
TO A LADY WITH A RING,
ring I wed:"--
To thee, sweet girl, my second ring
While the balm of resentment shall solace my grief. Let my sighs never heave, let my tears never flow,
Let the smile of contempt the stern vietor defy; For the tear has a charm which no art can bestow,
And the language of love is the foul-breathing figh. Let me shun the proud despot, who causes my care,
Lest the torture I suffer-hould feed her disdain, For my tyrant delights in the pang of despair,
And the sound which she loves is the deep groån of pair.
Where reflection shall sadden with legions of woes;
While around my torn bosom the loud tempest blows.
And the sun's glowing wreath fhall encircle the steep, But my bosom shall never forget the deep figh,
Nor my eyes lose the vision that prompts them to weep!
Then, O! where shall I wander, in search of repose, Where explore that oblivion which calms the wrung
breast, Since the lover finds sorrow wherever he goes,
And the world has, for passion, no pillow of reft? To the grave! where the tyrant is robb’d of his pow'r,
Where complainings shall cease, for no anguish is there; While the breathing destroyer shall live a short hour,
Till the pang of remorse ends the reign of despair.
THE UNFORTUNATE FAIR.
BY ROBERT SOUTHEY.
ARD by the road where, on that little mound,
The child of misory rests her head in peace. Pause there in sadness. That unhallow'd ground Inshrines what once was Isabel. Sleep on,
Sleep on, poor outcast !- Lovely was thy cheek,
And thy mild eye was eloquent to speak
The tear of anguish for the babe unborn,
The helpless heir of poverty and scorn.
I pause, and wipe the big drop from mine eye,
The dury I to others owe,
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THE FEMALE EXILE.
BY CHARLOTTE SMITH.
JOVEMBER's chill blaft on the rough beach is
The surge breaks afar, and then foams to the shore, Dark clouds o'er the sea gather heavy and scowling,
And the white cliffs re-echo the wild wintry roar. Beneath that chalk rock, a fair stranger, reclining,
Has found on damp sea-weed a cold lonely seat; 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 sail, which, alas! all her fond hopes deceiving,
May bring only tidings to add to her care.
Once woven with garlands of gay summer flow'rs; Her dress unregarded befpeaks her diftreffes,
And beauty is blighted by grief's heavy hours. Her innocent children, unconscioụs of sorrow,
To seek the glofs'd shell, or the crimson weed, stray; Amus’d with the present, they heed not to-morrow,
Nor think of the storm that is gath’ring to-day. The gilt fairy ship, with its ribbon-sail spreading,
They launch on the falt pool the tide left behind; Ah! vi&tims-for whom their fad mother is dreading The multiply'd mis’ries that wait on mankind.