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Ah, whither fled? Ye dear illufions, stay! Lo, pale and filent lies the lovely clay. How are the roses on that cheek decay'd, Which late the purple light of youth display'd! Health on her form each fprightly grace beftow'd; With life and thought each speaking feature glow'd. Fair was the bloffom, foft the vernal sky; Elate with hope we deem'd no tempeft nigh; When lo, a whirlwind's inftantaneous guft Left all its beauties withering in the dust.

Cold the foft hand, that footh'd Woe's weary head!
And quench'd the eye, the pitying tear that shed!
And mute the voice, whofe pleasing accents stole,
Infufing balm, into the rankled foul!

O Death! why arm with cruelty thy power,
And fpare the idle weed, yet lop the flower?
Why fly thy fhafts in lawless error driven?
Is Virtue then no more the care of Heaven?
But peace, bold thought! be ftill, my bursting heart!
We, not Eliza, felt the fatal dart.

Efcap'd the dungeon does the flave complain,
Nor bless the friendly hand that broke the chain?
Say, pines not Virtue for the lingering morn,
On this dark wild condemn'd to roam forlorn?
Where Reafon's meteor-rays, with fickly glow,
O'er the dun gloom a dreadful glimmering throw;
Disclosing dubious to th' affrighted eye
O'erwhelming mountains tottering from on high,
Black billowy deeps in ftorm perpetual toss'd,
And weary ways in wildering labyrinths lost.
O happy ftroke, that bursts the bonds of clay,
Darts through the rending gloom the blaze of day,

And

And wings the foul with boundless flight to foar
Where dangers threat, and fears alarm, no more.
Transporting thought! here let me wipe away
The tear of grief, and wake a bolder lay.
But ah! the swimming eye o'erflows anew ;
Nor check the facred drops to pity due:

Lo, where in fpeechless, hopeless anguish, bend
O'er her lov'd duft, the Parent, Brother, Friend!
How vain the hope of man! But cease thy ftrain,
Nor Sorrow's dread folemnity profane;

Mix'd with yon drooping mourners, on her bier
In filence shed the fympathetic tear.

DR. BEATTIE.

SE CT. CXII.

ON A THUNDER-STORM, AT MIDNIGHT.

LET coward Guilt, with pallid Fear,

To fhelt'ring caverns fly,

And juftly dread the vengeful fate
That thunders through the sky.

Protected by that hand, whofe law
The threat'ning ftorms obey,
Intrepid Virtue fmiles fecure,
As in the blaze of day.

In the thick cloud's tremendous gloom,
The lightning's lurid glare,

It views the fame all-gracious Pow'r
That breathes the vernal air.

Thro

Thro' nature's ever-varying scene,
By different ways pursued,
The one eternal end of Heav'n
Is univerfal good:

With like beneficent effect

O'er flaming æther glows,

As when it tunes the linnet's voice,
Or blushes in the rose.

By reason taught to scorn those fears
That vulgar minds moleft,
Let no fantastic terrors break
My dear Narciffa's reft.

Thy life

may all the tend'reft care

Of Providence defend,

And delegated angels round

Their guardian wings extend!

When thro' creation's vast expanse
The last dread thunders roll,
Untune the concord of the spheres,
And shake the rifing foul;

Unmov'd may'f
'ft thou the final storm
Of jarring worlds furvey,

That ushers in the glad ferene
Of everlasting day!

MISS CARTER.

SECT

A

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T day's early dawn, a gay Butterfly spy'd

A budding young Rofe, and he wish'd her his
bride;

She blush'd when she heard him his paffion declare,
And tenderly told him he need not despair.
Their vows they foon plighted, as lovers still do;
He fwore to be conftant, she vow'd to be true.
It had not been prudent to deal with delay :
The bloom of a Rofe paffes quickly away,
And the pride of a Butterfly dies in a day.

II.

When wedded, away the wing'd gentleman hies;
From flow'ret to flów'ret he wantonly flies:
Nor did he revifit his bride, till the fun

Had less than one fourth of his journey to run.
The Rofe thus reproach'd him-" Already fo cold?
"How feign'd, O you falfe one! that paffion you told!
""Tis anage fince you left me"-she meant a few hours;
But fuch we'll fuppofe the fond language of flowers.
III.

"I faw when you gave the bafe Vi'let a kifs: "How could you defcend to fuch meanness as this? "Shall a low little wretch, whom we Rofes despise, "Find favour, oh Love, in my Butterfly's eyes? "On a Tulip, quite tawdry, I mark'd your foul rape; "Nor yet could the pitiful Primrose escape: "Dull Daffodils, too, were with paffion addrefs'd, « And Poppies, ill-fcented, you fondly carefs'd."

The

IV.

The coxcomb was piqued, and reply'd with a fneer, "That you're firft to complain, I commend you, my

dear;

"But, know, from your conduct my maxims I drew, "And if I'm inconftant, I copy from you.

I faw the boy Zephyrus rifle your charms;

"I faw how you fimper'd and smil'd in his arms: "The Honey-bee kifs'd you, you must not difown; "You favour'd, likewise, O difhonour! a Drone! "What's worse-'tis a fault which you cannot deny, "Your sweets were made common, falfe Rofe, to a Fly.”

THE MORAL.

This law, long ago, did Love's providence make,
That ev'ry coquet fhould be curs'd with a rake.

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LIKE as the buftling bee, when spring difplays
Her blooming honours to Apollo's rays,

Seeks the new gardens, and on Flora treads,
Or fips the nectar from the blufhing meads:
Here vi❜lets bloom, and here a lily grows,
But here buds forth the fweet Idalian rofe:

Here

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