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النشر الإلكتروني

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 last :
When the fond mother hugs her child

Still closer to her breast,
And the poor infant, frost-beguild,

Scarce feels that it is prest:
Then let the bounteous hand extend

Its blessings to the poor,
Nor spurn the wretched, while they bend

All suppliant at your door.

TO A LADY WITH A RING,

AUTHOR UNKNOWN.


THEE, 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;
Taste long admir'd; fenfe long rever'd;
And all my Molly then appear’d.
If she, by merit since disclos'd,
Prov'd twice the woman I suppos’d,
I plead that doubled merit now,
To justify a double vow.
Here then, to-day, (with faith as sure,
With ardour as intense and pure,
As when amidst the rights divine,
I took thy troth, and plighted mine)

To thee, sweet girl, my second 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;
Those virtues, whose progressive claim,
Endearing wedlock’s very name,
My soul enjoys, my song approves,
For conscience fake as well as love's.
For what? They shew me hour by hour,
Honour's high thought, affection's pow's,
Discretion's deed, found judgment's sentence;
And teach me all things but—REPENTANCE!

TO LOVE.

ANONYMOUS.

TEACH
PEACH me, Love, fince thy torments no precepts can

cure,
Since reflection and reason deny me relief;
O teach me thy scorn and thy wrongs to endure,

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.
I will traverse the desart, climb mountains untrod,

Where reflection shall sadden with legions of woes;
I will cool my scorch'd brain on the dew-moisten'd sod,

While around my torn bosom the loud tempest blows.
Yet the mild breath of morning shall bid the storm fly,

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!

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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.

HA

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 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 scorn.
She drank the draught that chill'd the soul to sleep.

I pause, and wipe the big drop from mine eye,
Whilst the proud Levite scowls, and passes by..

THE WISH.

ANONYMOUS.

,
Not meanly poor, nor proudly great!
I ask no wealth, no pow'r I crave;
Let me not have, nor be a slave :
O'er no man let me covet rule;
Let no man e'er make me his tool.

The dury 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 negle&t.
Bless me with health, to earn my food,
With wisdom to discern what's good.
Less 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 cause is mine,
The merciful chasisement thine.
On every fellow-mortal's woe,
Let me a ready tear bestow;
Nor be so much of need afraid,
As to with-hold my little aid,
When weeping want, with trembling hand,
Makes, in thy name, its meek demand.
When innocence gives laughter birth, it sebe
Let me not check the harmless mirth; 90 da
But bless the voice, that kindly cries all
• Be merry mortals, and be wise? vino Road IV.
gracious Heav'n, these bleflings give!
care not where, but how, I live ! now 5000
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THE BRITISH

POETICAL MISCELLANY.

THE FEMALE EXILE.

BY CHARLOTTE SMITH.

NOVE

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.
Loose stream to wild winds those fair flowing tresses,

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.

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