But what adventures more befel 'em, Are cat and dog, and rogue and whore. ELE GY, WRITTEN IN THE YEAR WHEN THE RIGHTS OF SEPULTURE WERE SO FREQUENTLY VIOLATED. BY W. SHENSTONE, ESQ. AY, gentle Sleep! that lov'ft the gloom of night; SAY, Parent of dreams! thou great magician! fay, Whence my late vifion thus endures the light, The filent moon had fcal'd the vaulted fkies, Ah! not the nymph, fo blooming and fo gay, No No more her eyes their wonted radiance caft; Nor fuch her hair, as deck'd her living face; Yet feem'd her lip's ethereal charm the same ; Damon,' fhe faid, mine hour allotted flies; Oh! do not wafte it with a fruitless tear! Tho' griev'd to fee thy Silvia's pale disguise; So may thy Mufe with virtuous fame be blefs'd! So may thy bones in facred filence reft Faft by the reliques of fome happier maid! Thou know'ft how, ling'ring on a distant fhore, And, oh! what pangs my tender bofom tore, To think I ne'er muft view my native clime! No friend was near to raise my drooping head, • Tho' "Tho' now debarr'd of each domeftick tear, Ifpoke; nor Fate forebore his trembling spoil: • Some venal mourner lent his careless aid; • And foon they bore me to my native soil, • Where my fond parents dear remains were laid. 'Twas then the youths, from ev'ry plain and grove, But why, alas! the tender fcene display? • Thus was I bofom'd in the peaceful grave, And with outrageous guilt defraud the tomb! Shall my poor corfe, from hoftile realms convey'd, Say, would thy breast no death-like torture feel, • If If Pæan's fons thefe horrid rites require, If Health's fair fcience be by these refin'd; Let guilty convicts for their use expire, And let their breathlefs corfe avail mankind. Yet hard it feems, when Guilt's last fine is paid, Now, more fevere, the poor offenceless maid • Dreads the dire outrage of inhuman foes. Where is the faith of ancient Pagans fled? • Where the fond care the wand'ring manes claim? Nature, inftinctive, cries, " Protect the dead; "And facred be their afhes and their fame!" Arife, dear youth! e'en now the danger calls; • E'en now the villain fnuffs his wonted prey: See! fee! I lead thee to yon facred walls Oh, fly to chafe these human wolves away!' WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT L IN A THUNDER STORM. BY MISS CARTER. ET coward Guilt, with pallid Fear, To fhelt'ring caverns fly, And juffly dread the vengeful Fate That thunders through the sky; Protected by that Hand, whofe law As in the blaze of day. In |