I meet her ever in the cheerlefs cell,

The gloomy grotto and unfocial wood; I hear her ever in the midnight bell,

The hollow gale, and hoarfe-refounding flood.

This caus'd a mother's tender tears to flow,
(The fad remembrance time fhall ne'er erafe)
When having feal'd th' irrevocable vow,
I haften'd to receive her last embrace.

Full well the then prefag'd my wretched fate, Th' unhappy moments of each future day; When lock'd within this terror-fhedding grate,, My joy-deferted foul would pine away..

Yet ne'er did her maternal voice unfold
This cloifter'd fcene in all its horror dreft;
Nor did the then my trembling steps withhold
When here I enter'd a reluctant guest.

Ah! could the view her only child betray'd,
And let fubmiffion o'er her love prevail?
Th' unfeeling priest why did the not upbraid?
Forbid the vow, and rend the hov❜ring veil?

Alas! fhe might not-her relentless lord

Had feal'd her lips, and chid her ftreaming tear; So anguish in her breast conceal'd its hoard, And all the mother funk in dumb defpair..

But thou, who own'ft a father's facred name,

What act impell'd thee to this ruthless deed ? What crime had forfeited my filial claim ?

And giv'n (oh blafting thought) thy heart to bleed?

If then thine injur'd child deserve thy care,
Oh hafte, and bear her from this lonefome gloom!
In vain no words can footh his rigid ear;
And Gallia's laws have rivetted my doom.

Ye cloifter'd fair-ye cenfure-breathing faints, Supprefs your taunts, and learn at length to spare, Though mid these holy walls I vent my plaints, And give to forrow what is due to pray'r.

I fled not to this manfion's deep recefs
To veil the blufhes of a guilty fhame,

The tenor of an ill-fpent life redress,
And fnatch from infamy a finking name.

Yet let me to my fate fubmiffive bow;
From fatal fymptoms if I right conceive,

This ftream, Ophelia, has not long to flow,

This voice to murmur, and this breast to heave.

Ah! when extended on th' untimely bier,

To yonder vault this form fhall be convey'd, Thou'lt not refufe to fhed one grateful tear,

And breathe the requiem to my fleeting fhade.

With pious footstep join the fable train,

As through the lengthening ile they take their way, A glimmering taper let thy hand fuftain,

Thy foothing voice attune the funeral lay:

Behold the minister who lately gave

The facred veil, in garb of mournful hue, (More friendly office) bending o'er my grave, And sparkling my remains with hallow'd dew:

As o'er the corfe he ftrews the rattling duft,
The fterneft heart will raise compaffion's figh:.
Ev'n then, no longer to his child unjust,
The tears may trickle from a father's eye.

HYMN ON SOLITUDE.

BY THOMSON.

HAIL, mildly pleafing Solitude!

Companion of the wife and good ;.
But from whofe holy, piercing eye,

The herd of fools and villains fly.

Oh! how I love with thee to walk, And liften to thy whisper'd talk, Which innocence and truth imparts, And melts the moft obdurate hearts.

A thousand shapes you wear with-ease,
And still in every fhape you pleafe.
Now wrapt in fome myfterious dream,
A lone philofopher you seem ;

Now quick from hill to vale you fly,

And now you sweep the vaulted sky.

A fhepherd next, you haunt the plain,
And warble forth your oaten strain.
A lover now, with all the grace
Of that fweet paffion in your face:
Then, calm'd to friendship, you affume
The gentle-looking Hartford's bloom,
As, with her Mufidora, fhe
(Her Mufidora fond of thee)
Amid the long-withdrawing vale,
Awakes the rivall'd nightingale.

Thine is the balmy breath of morn,
Juft as the dew-bent rofe is born;
And while meridian fervours beat,
Thine is the woodland dumb retreat :
But chief when evening fcenes decay,
And the faint landscape fwims away,
Thine is the doubtful foft decline,
And that beft hour of mufing thine:

Defcending angels blefs thy train,
The virtues of the fage and fwain ;
Plain Innocence, in white array'd,
Before thee lifts her fearless head:

Religion's beams around thee shine,

And cheer thy glooms with light divine:
About thee fports fweet Liberty;

And rapt Urania fings to thee.

Oh! let me pierce thy fecret cell,

And in thy deep receffes dwell.
Perhaps from Norwood's oak-clad hill,
When Meditation has her fill,
I juft may caft my careless eyes,
Where London's fpiry turrets rife,
Think of its crimes, its cares, its pain,
Then shield me in the woods again.

ODE TO SENSIBILITY. THANKS to thee, Nymph, whose powerful hand

From dulnefs fet me free,

Thy praifes I'll for ever fing,
Sweet Senfibility.

Thy touch, fo gentle and benign,

Revives the torpid heart,

Thou pleasure canft from pain refine,
To joys new joy impart.

By thee the gaudy rainbow fhows
More beauties to the eye,