AN UNFORTUNATE MOTHER To her Infant at the Breast. UNHAPPY child of indiscretion! Poor slumb'rer on a breast forlorn, Pledge and reproof of past transgression, Dear, though unwelcome to be born. For thee, a suppliant wish addressing And sighs suppress my broken pray'r. But, spite of these, my mind unshaken, And, lest th' injurious world upbraid thee, And though, to rank and place a stranger, Thy life an humble course must run, Soon shalt thou learn to fly the danger Which I, too late, have learn'd to shun. Mean-time in the sequester'd vallies, Here to thy infant wants are giv'n Courier. ON LEAVING LONDON. FAREWELL, proud London! to thy noise and grandeur, To thy gay scenes I bid a long adieu, For there in vain for peace the heart may wander, To calm delights I haste, and tranquil pleasures, Welcome ye glens! ye peaceful shades! receive me, When Spring, with flow'ry wreaths, the fields adorning, The village bells in artless cadence falling, When on thy banks, clear Trent! a school-boy, straying Or, through the fertile vale with rapture playing, Alas! those joys are gone, and gone for ever, Yet still my thoughts shall court the fond remembrance, In brighter hues and tints which ne'er can fade. Whilst round my head the breeze of health still blowing, My mind from care, and vain ambition free, Here on thy banks, lov'd Trent! no sorrow knowing, I'll pass my days, and tune my muse to thee. Then farewell, London! to thy noise and grandeur, To thy gay scenes I bid a last adieu, For in these blest retreats my heart shall wander, And prove the joys they promise ever true. ODE TO CANDOUR. THE dearest friend I ever prov'd, Yet shall I urge the rising vow, Avaunt, thou hell-born fiend-no more Presume my steps to guide; Let me be cheated o'er and o'er, But let me still confide. If this be folly, all my claim To wisdom I resign; But let no sage pretend to name His happiness with mine. Weekly Amusement. C. S. A FAREWELL. ONCE more, enchanting girl, adieu! The sweet expression of that face, Yet give me, give me, ere I go, Say, when to kindle soft delight, That hand has chanc'd with mine to meet, How could its thrilling touch excite O say-but no, it must not be. Adieu, enchanting girl, adieu! Rogers. |