SONG. FAR from the arms of her I love, How lighter far the task, to die! In fancy hear the exile mourn, In fancy see his sorrows stream? Say, will not fear a pang inspire, When winds the mountain billows form, And awful thunder swells the storm? Then will thy fancy paint the swain Thy soft and feeling heart with fear; A TALE. No o plate had John and Joan to hoard, Plain folk in buble plight; One only tankard crown'd their board, And that was fill'd each night. Along whose inner bottom sketch'd, Some rude engraver's hand had etch'd John swallow's first a mod'rate sup; But Joan was not like John; For, when her lips once tour 'd the She swill'd till all was gone. John often urg'd her to drink fair, cup, When John found all remonstrance vain, Another card he play'd, And where the angel stood so plain, He got a devil portray'd. Joan saw the horns, Joan saw the tail, And ever, as she seiz'd her ale, John star'd, with wonder petrify'd, And "why dost guzzle now," he cry'd, "Oh John," said she, "am I to blame? I can't in conscience stop; For sure 'twould be a burning shame Bishop. TOM JONES. THE beau buys Fielding's works complete, Each page with rapture cons, Sophia's finds in ev'ry street, And is himself Tom Jones. To some gay girl his vows are giv'n, That, when she smiles, he is in heav'n, Ague or influenza soon Comes on; he weds a wife; The warm fit ends with one short moon, The cold fit lasts for life. Beattie. THE DYING DAUGHTER TO HER MOTHER! when these unsteady lines This hand that writes, this heart that pines, That guilty child, so long disown'd, Can then, blest thought! no more offend; And should'st thou deem my crimes aton'd, O deign my orphan to befriend : That orphan, who, with trembling hand O raise the veil which hides her cheek, For once that face was dear to thee. I Gaze on-and thou'lt perchance forget And in my pure and artless child Thou'lt think her mother meets thy views Ah! then I see thee o'er her charms But soon the dear illusion flies; My crimes again to mem'ry rise, Till suddenly some keen remorse, Some deep regret, her claims shall aid, For wrath that held too long its course, For words of peace too long delay'd. For pardon (most, alas! deny'd When pardon might have snatch'd from shame) And kindness, hadst thou kindness tried, Had check'd my guilt, and sav'd my fame. |