And can that fomething, each man calls "HIMSELF,"
'Midft this wide miracle of earth and sky,
Waste the swift moments in the toil for pelf,
Nor raise one thought to Nature's Majesty?

On the globe's furface creep, a grov❜ling worm!
Nor joy the noon-tide radiance to behold-
Nor trace the mighty hand that guides the ftorm-
But deem existence relative to gold?

Ah! fince this awful Now remains for me,

To think, to breathe, to wonder at the Whole,
To move, to touch, to taste, to hear, to fee,
To call the myftic confcioufnefs, my foui!
Fain would I seek awhile the sportive fhade,
Ere the scene close upon this doubtful state;
Catch ev'ry painted phantom ere it fade,
And leave the vast uncertainty to Fate.

But GRIEF IS MINE-yet can I quit the crew
Whose bosoms burn with avarice and pride,
In yon blue vault to quench my thirsty view,
Or tell my feelings to the boift'rous tide.

For are there not, as journeying on we go,
With pilgrim ftep through an unfriendly vale,
Oppreffion, Malice, Cruelty, and Woe?

And do not Falfehood's venom'd fhafts affail?
Were it not nobler far, with focial love,
As fellow-trav❜llers in a rugged road,
That each the other's evils fhould remove,
And with joint force fuftain the genʼral load?
O! while fuch fancy'd happiness I trace,

A glow of fadnefs runs through ev'ry vein;
Rapture's warm tear fteals filent down my face,
And thus I wake the philanthropic strain:

Long, long, may Britain's gen'rous Ifle be blest
With foreign fame, domeftic joys increase;
At ev'ry infult shake the warlike creft;

Then wave her laurels in the Bow'r of Peace!

Bleft be her Sons, in hardy valour bold,

And all who haunt meek Learning's facred shade;

Th' afpiring young, and the repofing old;
The modest matron, and th' enchanting maid;
And might the bard upon himself beflow
One humble wifh, that foon his cares may end;
With the dead year, refign his weight of woe!
Or, with the thorns of life, at least some roses blend!

THE PROSTITUTE.

S trav'llers through life's vary'd paths we go, A What fights we pals of vretchednefs and woe!

Ah! deep, and frequent is the good man's figh
O'er thy hard fuff'rings, poor Humanity!

What form is that, which wanders up and down,
Some poor unfriended orphan of the town!
Heavy, indeed, hath ruthless forrow press'd
Her cold hand at her miferable breaft;
Worn with disease, with not a friend to fave,
Or fhed a tear of pity o'er her grave;
The fickly luftre leaves her faded eye;
She finks in need, in pain, and infamy.

Ah! happier innocent! on whose chaste cheek
The fpotlefs rofe of virtue blushes meek,
Come fhed, in mercy fhed, a filent tear,
O'er a loft fister's folitary bier!

She might have bloom'd, like thee, in vernal life,
She might have bloom'd the fond endearing wife--
The tender daughter! but want's chilling dew
Blafted each fcene hope's faithlefs pencil drew!
No anxious friend fat weeping o'er her bed,
Or afk'd the bleffing on her little head!

She never knew, though beauty mark'd her face,
What beggars woman-kind of every grace!
Ne'er clafp'd a mother's knees with fond delight,
Or lifp'd to Heav'n her pray'r of peace at night!
Alas! her helpless childhood was confign'd,
To the unfeeling mercy of mankind!

ELEGY.

Written to diffuade a young Lady from frequenting the Tomb of her deceafed Lover.

Now

BY THE REV. N. BULL..

WOW, through the dusky air, on leaden wings, Sails the fad night, in blackeft clouds array'd; Hark! in the breeze the gath'ring tempeft fings; How drear it murmurs in the ruftling fhade!

Loud, and more loud, is heard the bursting found Of thunder, and the peal of diftant rain; While lightnings, gliding o'er the wild profound, Fire the broad bofom of the dafhing main.

Now dies the voice of village mirth; no more
Is feen the friendly lantern's glimm'ring light;
Safe in his cot, the fhepherd bars his door
On thee, Eliza! and the storm of night.
In yon fequefter'd grove, whofe fullen shade
Sighs deeply on the blaft, doft thou remain,
Still faithful to the fpot, where he is laid,

For whom the tears of beauty flow in vain!
Ah! left alone beneath the dreadful gloom,
Companion of the tempeft! left alone!
I fee thee, fad-reclining o'er the tomb,

A pallid form, and wedded to the ftone!

Ah! what avails it, Sorrow's gentleft child!

To wet th' unfruitful urn with many a tear; To call on Edward's name, with accents wild, And bid his phantom from the grave appear? No gliding fpirits skim the dreary ground,

Drefs the green turf, or animate the gloom; No foft aërial mufic fwells around,

Nor voice of fadnefs murmurs from the tomb. Cold is the breast that glow'd with love, and pale The cheek that, like the morning, blush'd before;

Mute are the lips that told the flatt'ring tale,.
And raylefs is the eye that flatter'd more.

Deep, deep beneath the dark mysterious grave,
Thy tears he fees not, nor can hear thy fighs:
Deaf is thine Edward as th' Atlantic wave,

Cold as the blast that rends the polar skies. ....

Oh! turn, and feek fome fhelt'ring kind retreat;
Bleak howls the wind, and deadly is the dew:
No pitying ftar, to guide thy weary feet,

Breaks through the void of darkness on thy view. Think on the dangers that attend thy way!

The gulph deep-yawning, and the treach'rous flood;
The midnight ruffian, prowling for his prey,
Fiend of despair and darkness, grim with blood!

But, oh! if thoughts terrific fail to move,
Let pity win thee back to thine abode;
Melt at a fifter's tears, a mother's love,
Aw'd by the voice of reason, and of God!

THE PENITENT MOTHER.

BY MISS HOLCROFT.

REPOSE, fweet babe! thy crying cafe;

For thine's an age of truth and peace;

Kind love thy infant days fhall rear,
Though love has planted daggers here.

Difgrace and grief benight my brow,
Fond victim of a perjur'd vow;
A vile feducer's guileful art
Betray'd my unfufpecting heart.

'Twas he deftroy'd my spotlefs fame,
But thou fhalt long furvive my fhame;
For, when in death I fleep at reft,

The world will cease to wound th' opprefs'd.

Then hush, sweet babe! thy cries give o'er,
Diftract my tortur'd breaft no more;
For love thy infant days fhall rear,
And grant my hapless fate a tear.

THE WASHING-DAY.

HE Mufes are turn'd goffips; they have loft

TH

The buskin'd ftep, and clear high-founding phrafe,.
Language of Gods. Come, then, domestic Mufe,
In flip-fhod measure, loosely prattling on
Of farm or orchard, pleasant curds and cream,
Or drowning flies, or fhoe loft in the mire
By little whimp'ring boy, with rueful face:
Come, Mufe, and fing the dreaded Washing-Day.
-Ye who beneath the yoke of wedlock bend,
With bowed foul, full well ye ken the day
Which week smooth fliding after week brings on
Too foon; for to that day nor peace belongs
Nor comfort:-Ere the first gray ftreak of dawn,
The red-arm'd washers come and chase repose.
Nor pleasant fmile, nor quaint device of mirth,
E'er vifited that day:-The very cat,
From the wet kitchen fear'd and reeking hearth,
Vifits the parlour, an unwonted guest.
The filent breakfast-meal is foon dispatch'd,
Uninterrupted, fave by anxious looks
Caft at the low'ring sky, if sky should low'r.
From that laft evil, O preferve us, heav'ns!
For fhould the fkies pour down, adieu to all
Remains of quiet; then expect to hear
Of fad difafters-dirt and gravel stains
Hard to efface, and loaded lines at once

Snapped fhort-and linen-horse by dog thrown down,
And all the petty miferies of life.

Saints have been calm while ftretch'd upon the rack,
And Montezuma fmil'd on burning coals;

But never yet did housewife notable

Greet with a smile a rainy washing-day.

-But grant the welkin fair, require not thou
Who call'ft thyfelf, perchance, the mafter there,
Or ftudy fwept, or nicely dufted coat,
Or ufual 'tendance; afk not, indifcreet,
Thy flockings mended, though the yawning rents
Gape wide as Erebus, nor hope to find