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Or has the cruel hand of fate
Bereft thee of thy darling young!

Alas, for BOTH, I weep.
In all the pride of youthful charms,
A beauteous bride torn from my circling arms!
A lovely babe that should have lived to bless,

And fill my doating eyes with frequent tears, At once the source of rapture and distress,

The flattering prop of my declining years! In vain from death to rescue I essay'd,

By every art that science could devise;
Alas! it languish'd for a mother's aid,
: And ving'd its flight to seek her in the skies
Then:o our comforts be the same,

: Af evening's peaceful hour,
So shus the noisy paths of wealth and fame,

And Breathe our sorrows in this lonely bower.


But why, alas ! to thee complain!
To thee-unconscious of my pain!
Soon shalt trou cease to mourn thy lot severe,
And hail the dawning of a happier year :

The genial warmth of joy-renewing spring
Again shall plume thy shatter'd wing;
Again thy little heart shall transport prove,
Again shull flow thy notes responsive to thy love

But O for me in vain may seasons roll,

Nought can dry up the fountain of my tears, Deploring still the COMFORT OP MY SOUL,

I count my sorrows by increasing years.

Tell me, thou syren Hope, deceiver, say,

Where is the promised period of my woes? Full three long, lingering years have roll'd away, And yet I weep, a stranger to repose :

O what delusion did thy tongue employ! “ That Emma's fatal pledge of love,

“ Her last bequest with all a mother's care, « The bitterness of sorrow should remove, “ Soften the horrors of despair,

" And chear a heart long lost to joy?" How oft, when fondling in mine arms,

Gazing enraptured on its angel-face,

My soul the maze of Fate would vainly trace, And burn with all a father's fond alarms ! And O what flattering scenes had Fancy feign'd,

How did I rave of blessings yet in store ! Till every aching sense was sweetly paind, And my full heart could bear, nor tongue could

utter more. “ Just Heaven," I cry'd-with recent hopes elate,

" Yet I will live-will live, thoug Emma's


So long bow'd down beneath the storms of Fate,

“Yet will I raise my woe-dejected head! My little Emma, now my ALL,

" Will want a father's care, “. Her looks, her wants my rash resolves recall,

“ And for her sake the ills of life I'll bear: And oft together we'll complain,

“Complaint, the only bliss my soul can know, From me my child shall learn the mournful strain, “ And prattle tales of woe;

“ And O in that auspicious hour,

“ When Fate resigns her persecuting power; • With duteous zeal her hand shall close,

“ No more to weep-my sorrow streaming eyes, • When death gives misery repose,

And opes a glorious passage to the skies.”

Vain thought! it must not be She too is dead

The flattering scene is o'er
My hopes for ever-ever filed

And vengeance can no more.-
Crush'd by misfortune-blasted by disease-

And none-none left to bear a friendly part !
To ineditate my welfare, health, or ease,

Or soothe the anguish of an aching heart ! Now ail one gloomy scene, till welcome death,

Willen ent nand (O falsly deem'd severe)

Shall kindly stop my grief-exhausted breath,

And dry up every tear:
Perhaps, obsequious to my will,

But ah from my affections far removed !
The last sad office strangers may fulfil,
As if I ne'er had been beloved ;

As if, unconscious of poetick fire,
I ne'er had touch'd the trembling lyre,
As if my niggard hand ne'er dealt relief,
Nor my heart melted at another's grief.

Yet—while this weary life shall last,
While yet my tongue can form the impassion'd

In piteous accents shall the Muse complain,

And dwell with fond delay on blessings past:
For O how grateful to a wounded leart,
The tale of misery to impart;
From other's eyes bid artless sorrows flow,

And raise esteem upon the base of woe !
Even HE, * the noblest of the tuneful throng,

Shall deign my love-lorn tale to hear, Shall catch the soft contagion of my song, And

pay the pensiye Muse the tribute of a tear.

* Lord Lyttleton.

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An Irish Gentleman, father to the Right Honourable George


Lord Epistle from Lord William Russel to William

Cavendish, supposed to have been written by Lord Russel, on Friday night, July 20, 1806, in Newgate.

Lost to the world, to-morrow doom'd to die,
Still for my country's weal my heart beats high,
Though rattling chains ring peals of horror round,
While Night's black shades augment the savage

Midst bolts and bars the active soul is free,
And fies, unfetter'd, CAVENDISH, to thee.

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