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Still shall sing the war-lorn ditty,

Still shall fight at honour's call;
While each passing ship in pity,

Cries" God help thee, Crazy Paul."

As ;

$ weary I wander, by night and by day,

often I meet the beaut'ous and gay,
But they feel not my suff'rings, they heed not my

care. And at night, all alonc, when the cold winds and

rain, Beat remorseless against this poor sheherless breast; I petition the great--they reply with disdain,

I give them my blessing--they leave me unblest. Ah! none think of me, for my parents are dead,

My money is gone, and my friends are all flown; In solitude born, and in ponury bred,

I'm doom'd thus regardless to wander alone, Yon house, where the taper diffuses its light,

The gay, and the affluent revel in wine; But they dream not of sorrow, where there's such de

light, They feel no misfortunes-they think noť of mine. Ah! fluttering heart, why so nimbly thus beat,

No heart with kind sympathy e'er beats for thee; No protection on earth shalt thon evermore meet,

Death alone is thy friends and he'll soon set thee free. Then ye proud, and ye wealthy, go take your dull

joys, You must quickly this scene, with its pleasures re

sign! We may yet meet again, where no sorrows annoys, Nor a poor orphan girl thus unhecded repine !








Y love's a vessel trim and gay,

Rigg'd out with truths, and stor'd with honour; As through life's sea she cuts her way,

All eyes with rapture gaze upon her. Built ev'ry wondering heart to please,

The lucky shipwright's love and fancy, From stem to stern she moves with ease.

And at her launch they callid her Nancy. When bearing up against life's gales,

So well she stems the dangerous trouble, I call her Anna as she sails,

Her form's so grand, her air's so noble, When o'er the trembling wave she flies,

That plays and sports as she advances & Well said, my Nan," I fondly cries,

As my full heart in concert dances.
In studding-sails before lise's breeze,

So sweetly gentle is her motion,
She's Anne,- for as she moves with ease,

She scems the queen of all the ocean.
But when on Sundays rigg'd in stays,

Like beauty gay, and light as fancy, She wins my heart a thousand ways,

I then delight to call her Nancy. When laying on a tack so neat,

The breeze her milk-white bosom filling, She skims the yielding waves so fleet,

I call her Nance, my bosom thrilling. Thus is she precious to my hcart,

By whate'er name comes o'er my fancy; Graceful or gay; grand, neat, or smart,

Dr Anna, Ann, Nan, Nance, or Nancy.



THE PENITENT. Being a genuine Epistle from an Unfortunate Daughter in ------, to

her Family in the Country.


( See page 227 of this Number.) W of ,

PITHDRAWN from all temptations that entice,
From all that can inspire unchaste delight,
To my dear bleeding family I write ;
But oh! my pen the tender task denies,
And all the daughter rushes to my eyes:
Oft as the paper 10 my hand I've brought,
That hand still trembled at the shock of thought;
Sighs interrupt the story of my woe,
My blushes burn me, and my tears o'erflow;
But nature now insists upon her claim,
Strikes the fine nerve, and gives me up to shame;
No more the anxious wish can I restrain,
Silent no longer can your child remain;
Write, write I must, each hope, each fear declare,
And try, once more, to win a father's care :
Scoru not, ah! scorn not then the mournful verse,
Revive my blessing and recall my curse;
Give to a daughter's wrongs one parent sigh,
Nor let a mother her last prayer deny.

Yet where, oh where, shall I the tale begin,
And where conclude the narrative of sind
How each dire circumstance of guilt disclose,
Unload my breast and open all its woes?
How to an injur'd parent shall I tell
The arts by which I stray'd, by which I sell?
No common language can the scene express,
Where every line should mark extreme distress;
Mere human words unequal all, we find,
To paint the feelings of a wounded mind :


'Tis not the scribbler's vein, the songster' art,
Nor the wild genius of a vacant heart,
'Tis not the lines that musically flow
To mark the poet's well-imagin'd woe;
Nor all the frolics of the tuneful tribe,
Can such a mighty grief as mine describe.

Full oft has scorpion fancy to my view,
Imag'd each anguish that a parent knew;
At midnight's still and searching hour she came,
Glar'd round my bed, and chill'd my soul with shame,
Crowded each black idea in my sight,
And gloom'd a chaos on the baliny night:

• Behold,' she said, on the damp bed of earth,
Behold th’unhappy man who gave thee birth;
In dust he rolls his sorrow-silver'd hair,
And on each muscle sits intense despair :
See, how the passions vary in his face,
Tear his old frame, and testify disgrace :
Retir'd from home, in silence to complain
To the pale moon, the veteran tells his pain
Now sinks oppress’d-now sudden starts away
Abhors the night, yet sickens at the day;
And see, thou guilty daughter! see, and mourn
The 'whelming grief that waits the sire's return!
Beneath some black’ning yew's sepulchral gloom,
Where'pensive sorrow scems to court the tomb,
Where tenfold sliades tepel the light of day,
And ghostly footsteps seem to press the way,
Bent to the ground by mis'ry and by years,
There view thy bleeding mother bath'd in tears;
Her look disorder'd, and her air all wild,
She beats the breast that fed a worthless child;'
And oh !' she cries
« Oh, had the fost'ring milk to poison turn'd,
Some ague shiver'd, or some fever burn'd;
Had death befriended, on the fatal morn
In which these eyes behéld a daughter born ;
Or had th’ Eternal seal'd its eyes in night,
Ere it the barrier knew 'twixt wrong and right,
Then had these curses ne'er assail'd my head
Why spring such torments from a lawful bed:'

Now melted, soften'd, gentler, she complains,
'Rage ebbs away, the tide of love remains:
Then how th' affecting tears each other trace,
Down the dear furrows of her matron face;
But still the anxious mother brings to light,
Scenes of past joy, and innocent delight;
Calls to remembrance each infantine bliss,
The cradle's rapture, and the baby's kiss ;
Each throbbing hope that caught th'embrace sincere,
With every joy that rose in every tear;
The beauteous prospect brightning every day,
The father's fondling, and the mother's play ;-
Yet soon she finds again the sad reverse,
Till harrass'd nature sinks beneath its curse;
Again, more fierce-more mad-she rends her frame,
And loudly brands ALMERIA with her shame!'

Here paus’d and shrunk the vision from my view,
But conscience colour'd as the shade withdrew ;
Pierc'd to the heart, in agony I lay,
And, all confusion, rose with rising day.

But ah! what hope could morning bring to me,
What, but the mournful privilege to see,
To view the pleasures which I could not share,
And waste the day in solitude and care?
More clearly shone the sun on my disgrace,
And mark'd more plain the blushes on my face.

Then, all enrag'd, I curst th' abandon'd hour,
When honour yielded to the traitor's power,
When, rash, I scorn'd the angel voice of truth,
In all the mad simplicity of youth:
When from a father's arms forlorn I stray'd,
And left a mother's tenderness unpaid ;
While nature, duty, precept, all combin'd
To fix obedience on the plastic mind.

Slung at the thought, cach vengeance I design’d,
And weary'd Heaven to uncreate mankind;
From room to room distractedly I ran,
The scorn of woman, and the dupe of man.

Alcanor, Curst Alcanor! first I sought,
(And, as I past, a fatal dagger caught),
The smiling villain soon my fury found,
Şiruck at his heart and triumph'd in the worms:

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