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He, kindling from within, requires no flame;
He glories in a Bastard's glowing name.

Born to himself, by no possession led,
În freedom foster'd, and by fortune fed ;
Nor guides, nor rules, his sov’reign choice control,
His body independent as his foul;

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Loos'd to the world's wide range-enjoin'd no aim,
Prescrib’d no duty, and assign'd no name :
Nature's unbounded son, he stands alone,
His heart unbiass'd, and his mind his own.

O Mother, yet no Mother !—’tis to you,
My thanks for such distinguish'd claims are due.
You, unenslav'd to Nature's narrow laws,
Warm championess for freedom's sacred cause,
From all the dry devoirs of blood and line, 25
From ties maternal, moral and divine,
Discharg'd my grasping foul; push'd me from shore,
And launch'd me into life without an oar.

What had I loft, if conjugally kind,
By nature hating, yet by vows confin’d,

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Untaught the matrimonial bands to flight,
And coldly conscious of a husband's right,
You had faint-drawn me with a form alone,
A lawful lump of life by force your own!
Then, while your backward will retrench'd desire,
And unconcurring spirits lent no fire,

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I had been born your dull, domestic heir,
Load of your life, and motive of your care ;

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Perhaps been poorly rich, and meanly great,
The slave of pomp, a cypher in the state ;
Lordly neglectful of a worth unknown,
And slumb’ring in a seat, by chance my own.

Far nobler blessings wait the Bastard's lot;
Conceiv'd in rapture, and with fire begot !
Strong as necessity, he starts away,

45 Climbs against wrongs, and brightens into day,

Thus unprophetic, lately misinspir'd, I sung : gay flutt'ring hope, my fancy fir'd; Inly secure, thro' conscious fcorn of ill, Nor taught by wisdom, how to ballance will, 50 Ralhly deceiv’d, I saw no pits to Thun, But thought to purpose and to act were one ; Heedless what pointed cares pervert his way Whom caution arms not, and whom woes betray; But now expos'd, and shrinking from diftress, 55 I fly to shelter, while the tempests press; My Muse to grief resigns the varying tone, The raptures languish, and the numbers groan.

Q memory! thou foul of joy and pain ! Thou actor of our paffions o'er again!

60 Why dost thou aggravate the wretch's woe? Why add continuous smart to ev'ry blow? Few are my joys; alas ! how. foon forgot ! On that kind quarter thou invad'it me not: While sharp, and numberless my sorrows fall.; os, Yet thou repeat'ft, and multiply'it 'em all!

Is chance a guilt? that my disastrous heart, For mischief never meant, muft ever smart ? * Can self-defence be fin ?-Ah, plead no more ! What tho' no purpos'd malice stain’d thee o'er? Had heav'n befriended thy unhappy fide, Thou had it not been provok'd-or thou had'it died.

Far be the guilt of homelhed blood from all On whom, unfought, embroiling dangers fall! Still the pale Dead revives, and lives to me, 75 To me! thro' Pity's eye condemn'd to see. Remembrance veils his rage, but swells his fate ; Griev'd I forgive, and am grown cool too late. Young and unthoughtful then; who knows, one day, What ripening virtues might have made their way! He might have liv'd, till folly died in shame, 81 Till kindling wisdom felt a thirst for fame. He might perhaps his country's friend have prov'd; Both happy, gen'rous, candid and belov'd. He might have fav’d some worth, now doom'd to

fall;

And I, perchance, in him, have murder'd all.

O fate of late repentance ! always vain : Thy remedies but lull undying pain. Where shall my hopes find reft?-No Mother's care Shielded my infant innocence with pray’r : 90

* In a sudden bruil at a coffee-house the author bad killed a man; for wbose murder be had been tryed, convieted, and fentenced; but, on the queens intercefion, bad obtained his pardon.

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No Father's guardian hand my youth maintain'd,
Callid forth my virtues, or from vice restrain'd.
Is it not thine to snatch some pow'rful arm,
First to advance, then skreen from future harm?
Am I return’d from death, to live in pain?

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Or wou'd Imperial Pity save in vain ?
Distrust it not-What blame can Mercy find,
Which gives at once a life, and rears a mind?

Mother, miscall’d, farewell-of foul fevere, This sad reflection yet may force one tear: 100 All I was wretched by to you I owd, Alone from strangers ev'ry comfort flow'd!

Loft to the life you gave, your Son no more, And now adopted, who was doom'd before, New-born, I may a nobler Mother claim, 115 But dare not whisper her immortal name; Supremely lovely, and serenely great! Majestic Mother of a kneeling State! Queen of a People's hearts, who ne'er before Agreed-yet now with one consent adore !

120 One contest yet remains in this desire, Who most shall give applause, where all admire.

* This wretch, who had without scruple proclaimed berself an adulterefs, bad first endeavoured to starve her for, ihen to transport him, and afterwards to bang bim.See the authors Life admirably written by Dr. Johnson.

EPITAPH

ON A YOUNG LADY,

BY THE SAME.

Clos'o are those

eyes,

that beam'd seraphic fire ; Çold is that breast, which gave the world desįre ; Mute is the voice where winning softness warm’d, Where music melted, and where wisdom charm’d, And lively wit, which decently confin'd, S No prude e'er thought impure, no friend unkind,

Çou'd modest knowledge, fair untrifling youth, Persuasive reason and endearing truth, Cou'd honour, shewn in friendships most refin'd, And sense, that shields th'attempted virtuous mind.; The focial temper never known to ftrife, The height’ning graces that embellish life; Could these have e'er the darts of death defied, Never, ah! never had Melinda died; Nor can she die-ev'n now survives her name, 15 Immortaliz'd by friendship, love, and fame,

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