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“ We long have liv'd and lov’d, but now must
part “ Pity, ye faints! the agonizing strife — “ Forget me,-rend me from thy bleeding heart,
Thy long-lov'd mistress, or thy dearer wife,
“ What! tho' these eyes some tender tears may
shed, “ Some looks of still alluring anguish cast; " What! tho' this voice the cause of love may
plead, “ Or these fond arms may strive to hold thee
“The wretched conflict thou must still sustain,
" And feel no paffion, or no passion own; " Thy gentle nature now must smile on pain,
6 And each soft fenfe resolve itself to stone.
" Thou first to love didst lead this fimple heart,
“ And whisper'd all was innocence and peace; 6o O teach me now, for thou alone haft art,
- To bid this heav'n-opposed paffion cease.”
O self-taught hypocrite! instruction lags
Behind the swift invention of thy brain.
The galling weight of thy injurious chain.
Indignant love the violation views
Of plighted vows, and bids the slave be free : Past pleasing accidents, like morning dews
Smote by the sun, shall melt from memory.
Methinks already, or this vision lies,
Beauty hath left thy prostituted cheek; And broad-ey'd impudence the place supplies
Of modesty, so amiably meek,
For what remains in lieu of love and truth,
And the fair train of their attending charms, Lewdly enjoy. thy satyr-visag‘d youth,
And see him grin in thy lascivious arms.
Quickly again thy loose desires shall change,
To try the fiercer force of foreign joys; 'Till Damon, more a satyr then, fhall range
The horned hoot of women and of boys.
AN ELE GY.
OH Albion ! fam’d for arts, in arms renown’d,
Where ev'ry grace once rear'd its lovely head, Where are thy ancient virtues to be found ? Say to what clime is thy Astræa Aled?
While rapine stalks gigantic thro' thy streets,
A mad’ning lust, whose sacrilegious hand, With violation taints whate'er ii meets,
And spreads disorders o'er a groaning land.
Illustrious youths ! ye great ones of the earth,
For whom fair science opes her myftic page; How can ye stain the meed of laureld worth,
By foul pollution and adult'sous rage ? Say, can the guilty pleasures of an hour,
Too dearly bought; and, ah! as quickly fled, Make you forget what's due to virtue's power,
Or what to nature, and the genial bed?.
The speaking eye, the soul enchanting grace,
Which fed defire, and charm’d the ravish'd fight; Say, can desire itself so foul deface,
And change to horror scenes of soft delight.
See where the lovely, desolated maid,
Sits fadly sighing to the midnight air,
And beats her breast, the seat of black despair.
Or ah! more horrid, frantic all, and wild,
Cruel, perhaps, her offspring se destroys; And, impious, dooms to death her guiltless child,
The hapless victim of unhallow'd joys !
Alas for mercy! where is pity flown,
If scenes like these can fail to draw a tear, From such as virtue's lore have ever known,
Or prov'd the raptures of a love sincere ?
In other parts, as wanton wishes guide,
The giddy youths seek out the harlot's train, Sink on their breasts, their blandishments abide,
And with short pleasure, purchase laiting pain.
Hence cold indiff'rence damps your marriage joys;
Hence dire disease infects the boiling blood ; Cuts short the thread of life, fair health defroys,
And with black poison taints the vital flood.
By foul debauch, and lust adult'rous driv’n,
See weeping Hymen quits this once lov'd shore, Inverts his blessings, takes his flight to heav'n,
And for your children lights his torch no more,
recal him, and his stay ensure : Pursue not virtue to her last retreat, The breast of beauty : fhun the harlot's lure,
Whose ways are mis’ry, and her paths deceit.
the fair ftill smile upon your youth, Twine myrtle wreaths your laureld brows to
grace, Still meet your faithful vows with love and truth,
And crown your blefiings with a virtuous race,
Where bliss like this the laughing hours employ,
Still fhall life’s landscape shine serenely bright; Whjie wisdom's self shall fanctify your joy,
And conscious worth enhance each dear delight.
THE CAPTIVE LARK.
T dawn of day the farmer rose;
The deadly fnares were fet;
Was struggling in the net.
The flutt'ring pris’ner bega'd his life;
O! pity me! he faid; 'Twould kill my children and my wife,
To hear that I was dead.
I hurt no creature, I; the whole
Wood round might vouch for me; I nor thy gold, nor silver stole;
Let innocence be free.
One grain indeed this fatal morn
I took; 'twas all I did.
Alas! kind heav'n forbid.