A lovely babe that should have liv'd to bless,
And fill my doating eyes with frequent tears,
At once the source of rapture and distress,
The flattering prop of my declining years!
In vain from death to rescue I essay'd,

By every art that Science could devise,
Alas! it languish'd for a mother's aid,

And wing'd its flight to seek her in the skies. Then O our comforts be the same,

At evening's peaceful hour,

To shun the noisy paths of wealth and fame, And breathe our sorrows in this lonely bower.

But why, alas! to thee complain!

To thee-unconscious of my pain!

Soon shalt THOU cease to mourn thy lot severe,
And hail the dawning of a happier year:

The genial warmth of joy-renewing spring
Again shall plume thy shatter'd wing ;
Again thy little heart shall transport prove,
Again shall flow thy notes responsive to thy

love.

But O for ME in vain may seasons roll,

Nought can dry up the fountain of my tears,
Deploring still the COMFORT OF MY SOUL,
I court my sorrows by encreasing years.

Tell me, thou Syren Hope, deceiver, say,
Where is the promis'd period of my woes ?

Full three long, lingering years have roll'd away,
And yet I weep, a stranger to repose:

O what delusion did thy tongue employ ! "That EMMA's fatal pledge of love,

Her last bequest-with all a mother's care, The bitterness of sorrow should remove, Soften the horrors of despair,

And chear a heart long lost to joy !"
How oft, when fondling in mine arms,
Gazing enraptur'd on its angel-face,

My soul the maze of Fate would vainly trace,
And burn with all a father's fond alarms!
And O what flattering scenes had Fancy feign'd!
How did I rave of blessings yet in store!

Till every aching sense was sweetly pain'd,

And my full heart could bear, nor tongue could

utter more.

"Just Heaven," I cry'd—with recent hopes elate, "Yet I will live-will live, though EMMA's deadSo long bow'd down beneath the storms of Fate, Yet will I raise my woe-dejected head!

My little EMMA, now my ALL,

Will want a father's care,

Her looks, her wants, my rash resolves recall,
And for her sake the ills of life I'll bear:

And oft together we'll complain,

Complaint, the only bliss my soul can know, From me my child shall learn the mournful strain, And prattle tales of woe.

And O in that auspicious hour,

When Fate resigns her persecuting power, With duteous zeal her hand shall close,

No more to weep-my sorrow-streaming eyes,
When death gives misery repose,

And opes a glorious passage to the skies.'
Vain thought! it must not be.-She too is dead-
The flattering scene is o'er,-

My hopes for ever-ever fled

And vengeance can no more—

Crush'd by misfortune-blasted by disease-
And none-none left to bear a friendly part!
To meditate my welfare, health, or ease,

Or sooth the anguish of an aching heart!
Now all one gloomy scene, till welcome death,
With lenient hand (O falsely deem'd severe),
Shall kindly stop my grief-exhausted breath,
And dry up every tear,

Perhaps, obsequious to my will,

But ah! from my affections far remov'd!
The last sad office strangers may fulfil,
As if I ne'er had been belov'd;
As if, unconscious of poetic fire,
I ne'er had touch'd the trembling lyre ;
As if my niggard hand ne'er dealt relief,
Nor my heart melted at another's grief.

Yet while this weary life shall last,

While yet my tongue can form th' impassion'd strain,

In piteous accents shall the Muse complain,

And dwell with fond delay on blessings past: For O how grateful to a wounded heart, The tale of misery to impart !

From other's eyes bid artless sorrows flow, And raise esteem upon the base of woe! Even HE, the noblest of the tuneful throng, Shall deign my love-lorn tale to hear, Shall catch the soft contagion of my song,

And pay my pensive Muse the tribute of a tear.

WHEN black-brow'd Night her dusky mantle spread,
And wrapt in solemn gloom the sable sky;
When soothing Sleep her opiate dews had shed,
And seal'd in silken slumbers every eye:
My wakeful thoughts admit no balmy rest,
Nor the sweet bliss of soft oblivion share;
But watchful woe distracts my aching breast,
My heart the subject of corroding care:
From haunts of men with wand'ring steps, and slow,
I solitary steal, and sooth my pensive woe.