TO THE AUTHOR OF THE FARMER'S BOY.

On the Birth of his Second Son,

HERE at my ease, which rare unmixt I know,

If aught may breathe from CAM's Muse-favor'd stream,
And the bright star of Evening's favoring beam,

And Suns long absent, which now purest glow,
ROBERT, to Thee a Lay should happier flow

Exulting in a most propitious Theme,

Now Life's new Dawnings on thy Infant gleam,
And at thy Name conferr'd Hopes livelier blow.

But, BLOOMFIELD, whatsoe'er thy Sons may be,

And Nature's kindest Gifts may well be theirs
Might they be such as CAM delighted bears
To Heaven, and touch the pastoral Reed like Thee,
Hadst thou no Female offspring, still thy Mind
Much imperfection in thy Bliss would find.
Cambridge, 2 Feb. 1804.

C. Lorrt.

SONG.

THREE rolling years at length are past
Since last we met on yonder waste,

And now, alas! we've met at last,

O my Eliza!

No longer do I see you glow,

No longer hear the ravish'd vow,

That light'ned once this maddening brow.

Has sorrow then so altered me,
Or absence so have changed thee,
That I am doom'd no more to see
My sweet Eliza

Free as air, and gay as love,

Yet pensive as the plaintive dove,

That wails the day in yonder grove.

O never, never strive again

To aggravate Love's fatal pain,

Nor tear my beating heart in twain,
O my Eliza

With whispering vows you never meant,
With kisses that you only lent,

To cheat a youth by passion spent.

MORTIMER.

THE PRIEST AND THE PRISONER.
BY THE LATE W. P. TAYLOR, ESQ.

DEEP-FIX'D in thought the pris'ner sat,
Revolving his impending fate;

Yet anxious, by some well-wrought scheme,
Still to prolong life's fleeting dream.

The confessor, surprised to see

Such dull insensibility,

Thus, to the victim of the laws,

With energy renew'd his cause.

Can, then, of life the mighty stake

So trivial an impression make?

Reflect, ere five short hours are flown,
Your crimes you must, by death, atone.”
66 No, father; not if you will lend
Your aid, and prove a convert's friend."
"A convert!"-" Yes-sincere and true:
Of death too near has been the view,
Ever to suffer me again

To tread the paths of vice and pain."

"Yet granting, son, there's no pretence,
But that 'tis real penitence;

And granting that I wish'd to save
A sinner from an early grave,

Where are the means?"-Down Raymond falls,

His guardian, his preserver, calls

The humane priest-" There, father, there

The altar's moveable--your chair

Stay"-breathless-agitated-faint

With hopes the reader's heart must paint→→→→

Raymond the altar gently moves
(By silence whilst the priest approves)

Beneath the window's lofty height,
That casts a dim and gloomy light,
And seems to tell the convicts there
"This chapel closes earthly care!"
"Of fifteen feet thus four I gain;
Eleven only still remain:
Upon the altar's steady base
Your confessorial chair I'll place;
Now, dearest father, quick ascend,

And to my feet your shoulders lend-
Farewel!- -nor e'er shall you have cause
To grieve you sav'd me from the laws."
He's gone-so shortly all's achiev'd,
'Tis scarcely by the priest believ'd-
Who yet his wonder must forego,
And things replace in statu quo
Then seats himself, nor deigns to stir
'Till summon'd by the officer-
"Father, the time's expir'd-we wait
To lead the pris'ner to his fate."
"Enter, my children”—in amaze,
Upon the placid priest they gaze;
Then each one eagerly demands
The victim Raymond at his hands:
"The victim! say the angel rather-
(In transports, cries the holy father,)
In vain for him on earth you'll seek;
Believe me-for the truth I speak-
Hence did I see him take his flight
Out at that window.-Mark the height-
Then judge if mortal pow'r could save
Th' intended victim from his grave."
Amazement is, of course, exprest,
And one, more sportive than the rest,
"Since he's got wings, for his diversion,
Ne'er was a better-tim'd excursion."
Of fleeting years some half a score,
With equal speed will we pass o'er.
Our confessor, one winter's day,
Through Ardenne's forest took his way;

A gloomy wild, where oft, 'twas said,
Murder on hapless wand'rers fed.
Bewilder'd in a road unknown,
Grey ev❜ning rapidly came on;
Nor was it without cause for fear,
Some-one he saw approaching near,
Who on the father fix'd his eyes,
Seeming to view him with surprise,
Then ask'd him, "Whither bound?"-related
How oft to travellers ill-fated,

This forest was their journey's end-
"But follow me, I'll prove a friend,"
Resistance would have useless been;
And this too thought the priest, I ween,
Who, with his mind on death bent wholly,
Followed reluctantly and slowly.

Canst thou not, reader, now foresee
What of the tale the end will be?
And canst thou not, through all disguise
The honest convert recognise ?
Who thus, in friendship's terms, addrest,
Soon as they reach'd his cot, his guest-
"Oh! truly welcome! truly dear!
No force, no wrong shall reach you
My all is yours!-My children-wife-
View the preserver of my life!

Ye all will joyfully agree

To bless that mild humanity,

here:

Which had both pow'r and will to save,
A fellow-creature from the grave !"
Whate'er the hospitable board-
Whate'er his cottage can afford,

Is all produc'd:- -three happy days
The confessor with Raymond stays;
Then from his sorrowing friends departs,
With blessings-issuing from their hearts.
But why engross the reader's time
With more of this unpolish'd rhyme ?
Which merely speaks, in language rude,
Of Mercy, and of Gratitude.

Brentingby, July 10.

ELEGY.

FARE thee well! poor luckless maiden;
Peace await you on yon shore!
Grief no more thy soul shall sadden,
Storms assail thy bark no more.

Lightly on thy clay-cold bosom,
Lie the softest, greenest sod!
May the flow'rs that o'er thee blossom,
Ne'er by thoughtless fools be trod.

Haply, may some child of sorrow,
View thy peaceful, lowly bed,
Wishing such were his to-morrow,
There to rest his weary head.

From his beaming eye may trickle
Gent❜lest drops of pity down,
Grieving, Death's destroying sickle,
Op'ning flow'r so sweet has mown.

May some heav'nly, kindred spirit,
Waft above thy parting soul;

There reward shall greet thy merit,
God who bruis'd thee-make thee whole.

EE.

LINES

TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. A. H. HOLDSWORTH,

Wife of A. H. Holdsworth, Esq. M. P. for Dartmouth, who died

4th Jan. 1804.

TYRANT of all our loves and friendships here!

Behold by beauteous victim!-ah! 'tis thine

To rend young hearts, and force the tend'rest tear,
Where joy should long in cloudless radiance shine.

Alas! the mourning Muse in vain would paint,
Blest shade! how purely past thy life away;
Or with the meekness of a favour'd saint,
How rose thy spirit to the realms of day.