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Far from the arms of her I love,

By fate too cruel doom'd to sigh, To desert climes forlorn I rove:

How lighter far the task, to die ! When from my soul's soft treasure torn,

Will Delia think on Colin's name? In fancy hear the exile mourn,

In fancy see his sorrows stream?

Say, will not fear a pang inspire,

When winds the mountain billows form, When lightnings flash their forky fire,

And awful thunder swells the storm? A dread will surely then prevail,

Thy soul a kind compassion move, When mem’ry tells the tender tale

Of all my woes, and hapless love.

Then will thy fancy paint the swain

Aghast, on life's extremest verge, Now struggling in the roaring main

Now dead, and sunk beneath the surge. Yet let not visions thus alarm

Thy soft and feeling heart with fear; For thee, Heaven shields my head from harm,

To save such innocence a tear.

A TALE.

No plate had John and Joan to hoard,

Plain folk in bumble plight; One only tankard crown’d their board,

And that was fill'd each night.

Along whose inner bottom sketcli’d,

In pride of chubby grace,
Some rude engraver's hand had etch'd
A baby angel's face.

John swallow's first a mod'rate sup;

But Joan was not like John; For, when her lips once tour i'd the cup,

She swilld till all was gone.

John often urg'd her to drink fair,

But she ne'er chang'd a jot; She lov’d to see the angel there,

And therefore draind the pot.

When John found all remonstrance vain,

Another card he play'd,
And where the angel stood so plain,

He got a devil portray'd.

Joan saw the horns, Joan saw the tail,

Yet Joan as stoutly quaff’d; And ever, as she seiz'd her ale,

She clear’d it at a draught.

John star'd, with wonder petrify'd,

His hair rose on his pate;
And " why dost guzzle now," he cry'd,

~ At this enormous rate.”

« Oh John," said she, “ am I to blame?

I can't in conscience stop;
For sure 'twould be a burning shame
To leave the devil a drop.”

Bishop

TOM JONES.

The beau buys Fielding's works complete, Each page

with rapture cons, Sophia's finds in ev'ry street,

And is himself Tom Jones.

То some

gay girl his vows are giv'n, And soon he learns to tell, That, when she smiles, he is in heav'n,

And, when she frowns, in hell.

Ague or influenza soon

Comes on; he weds a wife;
The warm fit ends with one short moon,
The cold fit lasts for life.

Beattie.

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Mother! when these unsteady lines

Thy long averted eye shall see,
This hand that writes, this heart that pines,

Will cold, quite cold and tranquil be."

That guilty child, so long disown’d,

Can then, blest thought! no more offend; And should'st thou deem my crimes aton'd,

O deign my orphan to befriend:

That orphan, who, with trembling hand !!

To thee will give my dying pray'r ;** Canst thou my dying pray'r withstand,

And from my child withhold thy care?

O raise the veil which hides her cheek," ;

Nor start her mother's face to see,
But let her look thy love bespeak,

For once that face was dear to thee. Xi

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Gaze on-and thou'lt perchance forget

The long, the mournful lapse of years, Thy couch with tears of anguish wet,

And e'en the guilt which caus'd those tears.

And in my pure and artless child

Thou'lt think her mother meets thy views Such as she was when life first smil'd,

And guilt by name alone she knew.

Ah! then I see thee o'er her charms

A look of fond affection cast;
I see thee clasp her in thine arms,

And in the present lose the past.

But soon the dear illusion flies ;

The sad reality returns ;
My crimes again to mem’ry rise,

And, ah! in vain my orplaan mourns :

Till suddenly some keen remorse,

Some deep regret, her claims shall aid, For wrath that held too long its course,

For words of peace too long delay’d.

For pardon (most, alas ! deny'd

When pardon might have snatch'd from shame) And kindness, hadst thou kindness tried,

Had check'd my guilt, and sav'd my fame.

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