This rose was white, and to be blest But when the lip of beauty shed Its colour chang'd, a crimson glow Then does not every kiss impart, In magic thrills of speechless pleasure, Reproaches to the wand'ring heart That knows not how to prize the treasure? O! yes, then let my bosom prove No throb, but friendship's throb divine; And let the kiss of fickle love, Capricious monitor, be thine. FATHERLESS FANNY. KEEN and cold is the blast loudly whistling around, Both my parents are dead, and few friends I can boast, And my gains are so small, a bare pittance almost! Once, indeed, I with pleasure and patience could toil, But 'twas when my parents sat by and approv'd! Then my laces to sell I went out with a smile, Because my fatigue fed the parents I lov❜d. And at night, when I brought them my hardly-earn'd gains, Though small they might be, still my comforts were many, For my mother's fond blessing rewarded my pains, But, ah! now that I work, by their presence uncheer'd, Then, alas! when at night I return to my home, Where no one exclaims "Thou art welcome my Fanny!" That, that is the pang! want and toil would impart No pang to my breast, if kind friends I could see'; For the wealth I require is that of the heart, The smiles of affection are riches to me. Then, in pity, ye rich, when to you I apply To purchase my goods, though you do not buy any, With the accents of kindness, O deign to deny, You'll comfort the heart of poor fatherless Fanny. The Albion. EPIGRAM. HARK forward! cries the Squire; his hounds Nor let them run through my estate." I don't mind running through my own." Meteors. STANZAS WRITTEN IN PANCRAS CHURCH-YARD. FRO ROM wanton scenes, the shew of fools, Where wisdom, yet untaught in schools, Embalms this calmer air! Here pride has struck its lofty sail, Alas! no pleasing objects here Within this silent spot of peace, Here let me muse, and, wrapt in thought, The realms of death survey; 'Till by the view reflective taught I learn to live to-day. T How vain is life! To-morrow's dawn Perhaps I ne'er may see! Between, how slight the curtain drawn, Indulgent God-whatever share That so-when this dissolving frame Imprison'd in this house of clay, By death unchain'd—she soars away, And seeks her native skies. Weckly Amusement. ON THE DECEITFULNESS OF HOPE.. FT have divines and sages taught, |