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AN UNFORTUNATE MOTHER

To her Infant at the Breast.

UNHAPPY child of indiscretion!

Poor slumb'rer on a breast forlorn, Pledge and reproof of past transgression, Dear, though unwelcome to be born.

For thee, a suppliant wish addressing
To Heav'n, thy mother fain would dare;
But conscious blushes stain the blessing,

And sighs suppress my broken pray'r.

But, spite of these, my mind unshaken,
In parent duty turns to thee;
Though long repented, ne'er forsaken,
Thy days shall lov'd and guarded be.

And, lest th' injurious world upbraid thee,
For mine, or for thy Father's ill,
A nameless mother oft shall aid thee,
A hand unseen protect thee still.

And though, to rank and place a stranger, Thy life an humble course must run, Soon shalt thou learn to fly the danger

Which I, too late, have learn'd to shun.

Mean-time in the sequester'd vallies,
Here may'st thou rest in safe content,
For innocence may smile at malice,
And thou, O thou, art innocent.

Here to thy infant wants are giv'n
Shelter and rest, and purest air,
And milk as pure-but, mercy, Heav'n!
My tears have dropt, and mingled there.

Courier.

ON LEAVING LONDON.

FAREWELL, proud London! to thy noise and grandeur,

To thy gay scenes I bid a long adieu,

For there in vain for peace the heart may wander,
Nor find the joys you promise ever true.

To calm delights I haste, and tranquil pleasures,
Scenes, which in youth's glad season once I knew,
When liberty and ease form'd all my treasures,
And on swift wings the silken minutes flew.

Welcome ye glens! ye peaceful shades! receive me,
(A wand'ring exile from my native shore)
Your harmless joys I know will ne'er deceive me,
I come to quit your blest retreats no more.

When Spring, with flow'ry wreaths, the fields adorning,
The blackbird singing from the topmost spray,
How sweet to taste the balny breath of morning,
How blest to wander at the close of day.

The village bells in artless cadence falling,
Now faintly heard, now swelling on my ear;
Scenes of past bliss to mem❜ry fondly calling,
Free from a sigh, unsullied with a tear.

When on thy banks, clear Trent! a school-boy, straying
With artless skill to tempt the finny race;

Or, through the fertile vale with rapture playing,
Culling wild flowers, with slow and-loit'ring pace.

Alas! those joys are gone, and gone for ever,
With pensive sigh I still the loss deplore;
Relentless Time! thus from my grasp to sever
Those days of youth I must beheld no more.

Yet still my thoughts shall court the fond remembrance,
And still shall fancy, with deceitful aid,
Recall the scene in all its just resemblance,

In brighter hues and tints which ne'er can fade.

Whilst round my head the breeze of health still blowing, My mind from care, and vain ambition free,

Here on thy banks, lov'd Trent! no sorrow knowing, I'll pass my days, and tune my muse to thee.

Then farewell, London! to thy noise and grandeur, To thy gay scenes I bid a last adieu,

For in these blest retreats my heart shall wander, And prove the joys they promise ever true.

ODE TO CANDOUR.

THE dearest friend I ever prov'd,
My bitterest foe I see;
The fondest maid I ever lov'd,
Is false to love and me.

Yet shall I urge the rising vow,
That tempts my wav'ring mind!
Shall dark suspicion cloud my brow,
And bid me shun mankind?

Avaunt, thou hell-born fiend-no more

Presume my steps to guide;

Let me be cheated o'er and o'er,

But let me still confide.

If this be folly, all my claim

To wisdom I resign;

But let no sage pretend to name

His happiness with mine.

Weekly Amusement.

C. S.

A FAREWELL.

ONCE more, enchanting girl, adieu!
I must be gone while yet I may :
Oft shall I weep to think of you;
But here I will not, cannot stay.

The sweet expression of that face,
For ever changing, yet the same,
Ah no, I dare not turn to trace,
It melts my soul, it fires my frame!

Yet give me, give me, ere I go,
One little lock of those so blest,
That lend your cheek a warmer glow,
And on your white neck love to rest.

Say, when to kindle soft delight,

That hand has chanc'd with mine to meet,

How could its thrilling touch excite
A sigh so short, and yet so sweet?

O say-but no, it must not be.

Adieu, enchanting girl, adieu!
Yet still methinks you frown on me;
Or never could I fly from you.

Rogers.

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