"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 miftrefs, or thy dearer wife.

66

"What! tho' thefe eyes fome tender tears may fhed,

"Some looks of still alluring anguish cast; "What! tho' this voice the cause of love may

plead,

"Or these fond arms may ftrive to hold thee

fast ;

"The wretched conflict thou must still sustain, "And feel no paffion, or no paffion own; "Thy gentle nature now muft smile on pain, "And each soft sense resolve itself to stone.

"Thou firft to love didft lead this fimple heart, "And whifper'd all was innocence and peace; "O teach me now, for thou alone hast art, To bid this heav'n-oppofed paffion cease."

O felf-taught hypocrite! inftruction lags
Behind the swift invention of thy brain.
But know, falfe wench, Colin no longer drags
The galling weight of thy injurious chain.

Indignant

Indignant love the violation views

Of plighted vows, and bids the flave be free:
Paft pleafing accidents, like morning dews
Smote by the fun, fhall melt from memory.

Methinks already, or this vifion lies,
Beauty hath left thy prostituted cheek;
And broad-ey'd impudence the place supplies
Of modefty, fo amiably meek.

For what remains-in lieu of love and truth,
And the fair train of their attending charms,]
Lewdly enjoy thy fatyr-vifag'd youth,
And fee him grin in thy lafcivious arms.

Quickly again thy loofe defires fhall change,
To try the fiercer force of foreign joys;
'Till Damon, more a fatyr then, fhall range
The horned hoot of women and of boys.

THE

COMPLAINT.

AN ELEGY.

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 Aftræa fled?

While

While rapine stalks gigantic thro' thy streets,
A mad'ning luft, whofe facrilegious hand,
With violation taints whate'er it meets,

And spreads diforders o'er a groaning land.

Illuftrious youths! ye great ones of the earth, For whom fair science opes her mystic page; How can ye ftain the meed of laurel'd worth, By foul pollution and adult'rous 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 foul enchanting grace, Which fed defire, and charm'd the ravish'd fight; Say, can defire itself fo foul deface,

And change to horror scenes of soft delight.

See where the lovely, defolated maid,

Sits fadly fighing to the midnight air, To heav'n complains of eafy faith betray'd, And beats her breaft, the feat of black despair.

Or ah! more horrid, frantic all, and wild,

Cruel, perhaps, her offspring fhe destroys; And, impious, dooms to death her guiltless child, The hapless victim of unhallow'd joys!

Alas

Alas for mercy! where is pity flown,

If fcenes like thefe can fail to draw a tear, From fuch as virtue's lore have ever known, Or prov'd the raptures of a love fincere ?

In other parts, as wanton wishes guide,

The giddy youths feek out the harlot's train, Sink on their breafts, their blandifhments abide, And with fhort pleafure, purchase lafting pain.

Hence cold indiff'rence damps your marriage joys; Hence dire disease infects the boiling blood; Cuts fhort the thread of life, fair health defroys, And with black poifon taints the vital flood.

By foul debauch, and luft adult'rous driv❜n,

See weeping Hymen quits this once lov'd fhore, Inverts his bleffings, takes his flight to heav'n, And for your children lights his torch no more,

Ah! yet recal him, and his ftay ensure :
Purfue not virtue to her laft retreat,
The breast of beauty: fhun the harlot's lure,
Whose ways are mis'ry, and her paths deceit.

So may the fair ftill fmile upon your youth, Twine myrtle wreaths your laurel'd brows to grace,

Still meet your faithful vows with love and truth, And crown your bleffings with a virtuous race,

Where

Where blifs like this the laughing hours employ,
Still fhall life's landscape shine serenely bright;
While wifdom's felf fhall fanctify your joy,
And confcious worth enhance each dear delight.

JH.

A

THE CAPTIVE LARK.

A FABLE.

T dawn of day the farmer rofe;

The deadly fnares were fet;

A lark with piercing cries and throes
Was ftruggling in the net.

The flutt'ring pris'ner begg'd his life;

O! pity me! he said;

'Twould kill my children and

To hear that I was dead.

my wife,

I hurt no creature, I; the whole
Wood round might vouch for me;
I nor thy gold, nor filver ftole;
Let innocence be free.

One grain indeed this fatal morn
I took; 'twas all I did.-

To die for one poor grain of corn!

Alas! kind heav'n forbid.

A red