"Base coward, wretch," she seem'd to say, "To cherish ever such dismay,

And wrongs so tamely bear;
Oh! how unlike my sons of yore,
Who welter'd often in their gore,
But never felt despair.

Proud of their freedom, they disdain❜d ·
To be by fell oppression chain'd,
And loaded with disgrace-
Nor would they at a despot's throne,
With souls corrupt, his privilege own,
To enslave the human race.

Wealth, pow'r, and fame, could ne'er allure-
Nor warp their virtue, fix'd and pure,
Content to wander free;

With lively health, contentment sweet,
They sought, and found the fair retreat,
Of heav'n-born liberty.

Restring'd by toil, their limbs were strong, (Unlike pale luxury's trembling throng), For war, or sylvan sport,

Adapted well;-their drink the stream,
Or draughts of rich nectarious cream
Their palates us'd to court.

And when fatigu❜d, no couch they found
Save what the soft and verdant ground
Did ev'ry where supply-
No torturing consciences oppress'd,
But sweetly they enjoyed rest,
Beneath the ambient sky."

Enough-my spirit rises wild,
I see how passive I have toil'd,
And bow'd beneath the yoke;-
Forgive, forgive, O! liberty!

My wand'rings long, too long from thee,
'Tis penitently spoke.

Away fell slav'ry! fly-thy reign

No more shall hurt a free-born swain,

Thy shackles, sec, I rive,—

Freedom expands each opening thought,
I feel my breast with feeling fraught,
To charity alive.

Pleas'd let me range, delightful maid!
The woods, and vales, and sylvan shade,
With thee in cot, or bow'r→→→

Oh! let me live the rural life,
Far, far retir'd from worldly strife,
And dire tyrannic pow'r.

Dead to the charms of living free,
Let venal wretches bend the knee,
For wealth and honours high-
These fleeting baubles I disdain,
I'd rather be the poorest swain,
Possess'd of liberty!

Oct. 2, 1801.

A

I. S

On the Death of a beloved Female Friend.

RT can no more-the foil'd physician silently
retires;

And owns his baffled skill-see how the dire disease
Consumes the sinking frame, and life goes out
Like an expiring lamp; whilst anxious friends
Implore the aid of heav'n with fruitless tears.
Ye mourners, cease to weep; tho' art has fail'd,
The Great Physician of the soul fails not,

But bears his patient through-strong in his strength,
She finds the bed of death the porch of heav'n,
And triumphs o'er the grave: why should ye wish
To keep the spirit ling'ring in the flesh,
Which pants with eager joys to reach the skies,
And claim the purchas❜d mansion of her lord;
For she dares claim-what hope and faith assure.
What the' her body dies? 'tis the glad way
By heaven appointed for the soul to pass,
(Ripen'd and fit for her immortal home),
From this unstable scene of good and ill,
To solid bliss; perpetual, and compleat!
Maidstone.

A. L

LINES,

Written on the day of marriage by a Daughter to a beloved

F

Mother,

AREWELL, my mother! on the bridal day,
The day that bears me far from thee away,
From thy parental roof, where I have shar'd
From infancy, thy kindness unimpair'd,
I take this parting leave, this long adieu,
By far the longest that I ever knew;
The most important and the most severe
That e'er I sounded in thy partial ear.
Yet may I hope, when I no longer share
Thy constant love thy never-failing care-
Then, may'st thou have no reason to deplore
The day I left thy hospitable door.
For me, may no imaginary fears

Call forth thy sighs, or stimulate thy tears;
For, sure, I leave thy peaceable abode,
For one as dear, as peaceable, as good.
I quit thy daily, thy increasing love,
For him whose tenderness will equal prove
For whom I freely even thee resign;

For whom I quit whatever once was mine:
Scenes where I first the voice of friendship knew,
Where, taught by thee, my young ideas grew;
Form'd by thy judgment, and matur'd to sec,
I owe a debt of gratitude to thee.

O say, my mother, have I e'er repay'd
That fond affection I have seen pourtray'd?
Did e'er my intant innocence beguile
From thee a mother's pleasurable smile;
Or art thou fully satisfied to prove

The certain knowledge of a daughter's love?
If thus: I can a recompence bestow,

How free, how largely, does this tribute flow;
Nor shall my future scenes, if e'er so fair,
Chace from my mem'ry thy maternal care:
Revolving years shall serve but to renew
Thy precepts, tender, and affection true;

Those precepts, mild, still dwell upon my ear,
And leave the purest of impressions there.
Be happy, then, my mother! nor repine,
When absent from me, as thy days decline;
Upon thy comfort will my peace depend,
Altho' united to as dear a friend.

THE PARSON's DAUGHTER,
A SONG,

In the Modern Style.

ET bards, with all the pow'rs of verse,
Repicte with heav'nly fire,

Their songs, in beauty's praise, rehearse,
And strike the thrilling lyre.
The painter, too, perform his part
In patent crayons, oil, or water;
But sure they can't, with all their art,
Pourtray my lovely parson's daughter.
At church, her heav'nly form so bright,
My bosom so disarms,

I sacrifice my conscience quite,
By gazing on her charms.

To be devout, I strive, in vain,

I'm like a fish that's out of water,

Nor can I chant a single strain

'But of my lovely parson's. daughter.

Oft do I tell my piteous case,
Devoid of ev'ry guile;

And sing the beauties of her face,
In hopes she'll deign to smile.

Yet, spite of all, she proves unkind,

For, tho' with tears I've oft besought her,

I ne'er can catch her in the mind:

Oh! cruel! cruel parson's daughter.

Then, pry'thee, come, 'sweet god of love!
Invade her snowy breast,

And move thy lovely, charming dove,
To grant me peace and rest,

So shall thy sacred altars blaze,

And, when in hymen's bands I've caught her, Beneath thy smiles, I'll spend my days, Blest with my lovely parson's daughter.

ON CHARITY.

HEN wealth, unfeeling, does bestow
A little aid to pallid woe,

WHE

With pity-asking eye,

Unless he gives, and thanks his God
That he feels not affiiction's rod,
It is not charity.

Urg'd on by pride and love of fame,
Recorded to behold their name,
Some will their gold apply.
The widow, and her children, poor,
From want, extreme, they may secure,
But 'tis not charity.

To seek, unask'd, the shatter'd shed
Where haggard pen'ry hides her head
With naked progeny ;

The little ones to clothe and feed,
And set no value on the deed,.

Is perfect charity.

The cell, with active zeal, to find
Where genius lives, sublime of mind,
Oppress'd by poverty:

To snatch him from her grasping hand,
And bid his heart, with joy, expand,
Is genuine charity.

Too rigidly we must not scan
The actions of too fragile man,

Or vassal slave, or free.

Each sect, and native of each realm,
Should be reliev'd, when woes o'erwhelm,
By tender charity.