TO A COQUETTE.

THE cheek that mocks the full blown rose,
Is fair and lovely to the eye;
But if with guilty shame it glows,
It ne'er shall cost my heart a sigh.

The eye that beams like star of heaven,
Can well its wondrous power impart;
But if its glance to all is given,

Its lightnings ne'er shall touch my heart.

The lip that breathes ambrosial bliss,
How sweet that balmy lip must be !

But if it yield the venal kiss,

It never shall be kissed by me.

On bosom white as hills of snow,
'Tis doubtless, rapture to recline;
But if that breast for others glow,

It never shall be pressed by mine.

There is a soft and winning smile,

Far sweeter than the breath of morn;

But if it dimple to beguile,

I hold its sweetness all in scorn.

There is a face and form combined,

Could win a hermit's heart to love; But if they clothe no kindred mind, They ne'er shall my affection prove.

There is a kind and gentle heart,

That animates innumerous charms;

But if it heave to Flattery's art,

It ne'er shall throb within

my arms.

That lip, the seat of young delight,

That eye, where Loves and Graces shine, That dimpling cheek, and bosom white,

Fame, Caroline, proclaims them thine!

THE

UNFORTUNATE FAIR.

ATTEND to the tale of a Wanderer forlorn,

The victim of FOLLY, through life doomed to grieve; Whose sorrows are such as the virtuous will scorn; And thongh they may pity, they cannot relieve.

Behold me ye fair-for I once was a beauty;

And bright was the prospect my young Fancy drew; Alas! the illusion decoyed me from duty,

When PLEASURE had gained me, she fled from my view.

Life's morning was blest with the sunshine of Fortune,
With parents preventing each wish as it rose;
And fondly I dreamed, when with Vanity sporting,
Life's noon would be rapture-its evening repose.

But Fortune, (still fickle,) repented her favour,
And cold-bosomed Poverty came in her room;
My father pursued her with honest endeavour,
But drooping, dejected, he sunk to the tomb.

My mother-alas! the reflection is anguish !

With fondness adored me, watched o'er me with care;

For an artful seducer I left her to languish

But bliss is her portion, and mine is—despair!

Deceived and dishonoured-my shame fast ensuing,
The soft voice of Nature was stiffled by Pride!
She made me a mother-I rushed upon ruin-
On the wild waste forsaken-my sweet baby died!

Dejected, deserted, wherever I wander,

Stern Virtue scarce dares for my sufferings to sigh, My name's a reproach-I'm a subject for slander; And murderer is whispered whene'er I pass by.

The thrush from the brake, sets my bosom a burning, The ewes from the valley, that bleat for their young, Proclaim me a monster, whom Nature is scorning; With heart-rending horrors I'm constantly stung.

Oh! could I forget, (but the bliss is denied me,)

How the sweet cherub smiled, when I left him forlorn!

At eve, on my pillow, his ghost seems beside me,

While my heart thrills with terror, and sighs for the morn.

'Midst ample creation, no hand to protect me, Disorder has seized on my grief-burthened mind; Sometimes I imagine, that angels direct me

That my infant is smiling-and William is kind.

"Tis then I am happy, my sufferings all banished,
In slumbers I sink, with my bosom serene,
But when I awake, the illusion is vanished,
And Reason returning reverses the scene.

At noon-day I saw him, descending from heaven,
With seraphs surrounded in radiant array;

I sunk on my knees, that I might be forgiven,
With the frown of a Fury he spurned me away!

Indeed I have wished, (but sure heaven will forgive me,)
That the torment of thinking, forever were o'er;

But alas! I'm a monster, and nought can relieve me,
For Hope, the last comfort—to me is no more!

Ye daughters of Love, who behold me thus mourning, Whose bosoms unspotted, are strangers to Care,

Oh! think-that to Virtue I found no returning;

I seek for REPENTANCE-but sink in DESPAIR!